


In My Dreams You're Blowing Me...Some Kisses

by queenklu



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-26
Updated: 2010-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:38:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenklu/pseuds/queenklu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Half an hour from Las Vegas--because when you drive 30 minutes for a fuck you're going to be on your best behavior--is a little bordello called Enthrall 'Em Steer 'n' Bunny Ranch. Fucking is not Jared's problem; keeping his job (and his head above water) just might be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In My Dreams You're Blowing Me...Some Kisses

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [If At First You Don't Succede, Suck Seed](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/1564) by balefully. 



> A/N: written for [j2_remix!](http://community.livejournal.com/j2_remix) And therefore a twist on [](http://balefully.livejournal.com>balefully's</a> FANTASTIC fic <a href=)If At First You Don't Succeed, Suck Seed.

  


 

 

The first time Jensen sees Jared Padalecki he's getting his cock sucked.

 

Cassidy rips off at the first hint of a door knob turning, sputtering and not in the least bit careful with her teeth—enough to make Jensen hiss in the not-fun way and cringe against the wall in case...okay, he doesn't really know or care, it's all survival instinct. He, of all the people in the room, is allowed to be a little bit partial to his dick.

 

Meanwhile, Mr. Tall Dark and Dimwitted is still standing in the doorway, stammering out apologies when he can get his mouth to work, eyes stuck between Cassidy’s mad naked scramble to the bathroom and Jensen's murderous glare. "I—oh, god, I'm—"

 

Jensen doesn't say a damn thing, and only part of that is because he's still working the lock on his ball gag.

 

"Um," TD&D says before his lips press into a thin line that makes Jensen think the mentally handicapped giant might have dimples when he smiles—like when strangers give him candy. He isn't _leaving_ , like any sane person would if they walked in on a freaking blow job, so Jensen takes his time undoing the gag, cracks his jaw a couple times and waits for the feeling to return to his lips before answering just to watch the idiot squirm.

 

"Can I help you?" he asks after one last beat, lifting his eyebrows to detract from the hoarseness of his voice. Saliva is cooling on his dick, and it's not entirely pleasant.

 

"I, uh." The first part comes out in a bunch, like he hasn't been breathing. Then a sheepish smile creeps in at the corners of his mouth (yes, dimples, fuck him) and the tall man's face goes even redder, bangs falling over one eye. "God, I'm so sorry. I was just looking for—Sam's office? I didn't mean to—"

 

"End of the hall," Jensen cuts off, because a) this entire conversation is stupid, and b) blue balls never killed anyone but he's honestly willing to shove TD&D against a wall and rub off just to traumatize him some more. The kid has that kind of face.

 

"Thanks," he says, raking a hand through his hair with another noise that could be a laugh as he starts to ease out of the room. Just before he does, though, his hand waves vaguely at the bathroom door. "Sorry again. Seriously, I—didn't expect her to run off like that. Seems kind of unprofessional, right?"

 

Jensen's across the room before he can think of reason why it's a bad idea, feels his eyes snap behind his eyeliner with a smug flash of satisfaction when TD&D stumbles back another step to let him catch the door.

 

"She's the client, fuckwit," he smarms, and slams the door in his face.

 

It takes a couple seconds to shake off…whatever he’s feeling enough to limp over to the bathroom and coax Katie out—a lot of whining and pleading and another hour he's not going to charge her for—and by the time she's plastic balls deep in his ass Jensen's ready to go find Dimples for a far less verbal round two.

 

~*~

 

"Sweetheart, if that's how red you are after ten minutes in this place you're gonna drop dead of blood loss by the weekend."

 

Jared swallows nothing and tries not to make it obvious. Samantha Ferris is probably the most intimidating person he knows, besides his mama. And lord if his mama so much as caught him driving ten blocks from a place like this she’d tan his hide herself.

 

"I—" He snaps his mouth shut, that naked man's disdain cutting through his embarrassment and solidifying into something a lot more stubborn. You walk in on a guy in his birthday suit getting serviced by a beautiful lady, the logical conclusion is not ‘male hooker.’ "I'm so sorry for being late, Mrs. Ferris. I got a little turned around upstairs."

 

"Yeah, I can see that." Her darkly painted lips smile without curling one fraction of an inch, and Jared’s heart is stalling out before he even registers what she’s pointing at on her computer screen.

 

It's the male hooker, still naked, grinding against the door the blond woman scrambled into, fingers splayed across the wood as his face slides into something pleading, smudge of pixels instead of lashes on his cheek, and his mouth—um. Well, it’s not exactly recovered from that ball gag.

 

Jared could probably cook an egg on his cheeks, they’re so hot, as his eyes snap to the floor and more apologies pour out of his mouth. Still, somewhere in the back of his head there’s a spark of indignation— _Are they_ allowed _to tape people like this? Do they even know they’re being filmed? On the other hand, maybe they pay extra for it._ _Maybe it’s like those pictures they take of you on a rollercoaster whether you want them to or not, and—_

 

"Boy, I'm going to be honest with you," Ferris cuts him off, and if she'd been smoking she would have stubbed out the cigarette. "You're probably too good for this establishment."

 

 _Shit_. Jared's almost dizzy with the blood draining from his face, stomach cramping tight. He's getting fired before she even has a chance to see him work.

 

"It's not a bad thing," she continues, like it's something she has to say rather than something she believes, "I don't care why you do the job, just so long as you do it and your issues don't become my problem. I hear you bad-mouthing one of my people and you won't see service on this side of the eastern seaboard. Comprende?"

 

Oh. Oh. He ducks his head, trying to hide at least some of the relief. "Yes, ma’am. Thank you."

 

Sam blinks, but her eyes are amused. "What are you thanking me for?"

 

Jared keeps his head down and tries not to scuff his boots like a six year old. "Not firing me?"

 

She laughs, a deceptively warm kind of bark. "Honey, I got a bar opening in ten minutes. I'd hire you if you had a peg leg and no hands so long as you could get beer in a glass. Now get."

 

He's half-way out the door before she calls him back, not that it took her that long to call. "Be sure to hook up with Jensen, now, after your shift—he'll be showing you the ropes. _Platonic_ hooking up, Mr. Padalecki, you keep your dipstick away from my inkwell or you’ll lose it.”

 

"Sure, I mean, yeah I—Jensen...?"

 

"Ackles." There's that smile again as her long nails flick towards her computer where the naked man has the naked girl against the wall, one of her legs draped over his shoulder as he nuzzles between her legs, still begging. "You've already met."

 

~*~

 

Collapsing at the bar sounds a lot better in his head than in reality—he has to ease up on one hip and slide over on the stool, eyes closed in an anticipatory wince. Katie's first time pegging, emboldened by the free hour and Jensen's skillful pleading, and she'd been far more enthusiastic than naturally gifted. Or gentle. Not that Jensen doesn't know how to handle an over-eager client, but her appointment had been tucked in right after a two hour orgy with a group of businessmen from Nigeria (who'd honestly been too enamored of themselves to pay much mind to Jensen's enjoyment) so she'd be able to make her engagement party at eight.

 

"Fuck me gently with a chainsaw," he groans, head collapsing in the tangle of his arms on the bar.

 

There's a sort of coughing laugh, and then a quiet, awkward voice says, "I don't think that's a drink, but I can sure look it up."

 

Jensen lifts his head just enough to glare at Phil until a longneck appears near his face, and stops.

 

"Hey again," Dimples says, accent slipping through so deep Jensen's spine straightens against his will. Twin spots of color high on his cheeks are the only indicator that he's seen Jensen with less than a stitch on. But for the first time, Jensen _looks_.

 

He's tall—mentioned that before, kind of hard not to—but Jesus. He hadn’t realized just how much of him there is to see. Even just the top half, filling out a black button up like the concept was designed for him, stylized western curls sliding down the shoulders. The sleeves are rolled up, revealing long, fuck, really strong, tan forearms, and it's unbuttoned just enough at the top to show the glisten of sweat in the dip of his collarbone. Jensen has to hope his jeans are really lumpy and shapeless for the sake of his own ego, but he doesn't know because Dimples is standing behind the bar.

 

 _Behind_ the bar. Polishing a glass. Like a bartender.

 

"Where's Phil?" he says, his own drawl slipping through simply because the level of country is undeniably ten times higher with Dimples in the room.

 

The guy dips his head with a smile that shows them off to an unquestionably unfair advantage, and sets the dried glass down to brace his hands on the bar before looking back over. "From what I understand, fired for extracurricular activities?"

 

Even Jensen can't miss the question in it, so the beer Dimples slides his way with smile and a, "Here, on the house," is really just over-killing the unspoken apology. Beating the dead horse, as it were.

 

Jensen takes the beer, swivels extra slow around on his chair as he tilts back for the first gulp, then slides off nice and easy and walks off to find Chris.

 

He works in the brothel. _All_ his drinks are free.

 

~*~

 

"I saw that." The girl who introduced herself as Dommy Dan whistles low and swats idly at a fruit fly with her riding crop. "You must've pissed off Jensen in a past life, sugarbuns."

 

"So that is..." Jared doesn't cringe, but only because annoyance is creeping in on his injured pride. He's not usually such a stumbling, fumbling idiot, and Jensen—well, Jensen is part of why he was a stumbling, fumbling idiot in front of his new boss.

 

"Don't tell me you've heard of him," Cinnamindy says with a smirk that barely flickers before disappearing, fixing Jared with a scrutinizing stare that's mirrored exactly in the faces of the other girls.

 

"No, I—" he stumble-fumbles, and tries not to noticeably grit his teeth. "Mrs. Ferris said he was going to show me—I'm not sure what exactly, seeing as he seems to be otherwise employed..." He probably doesn't need to be polishing quite so hard, but there's a really stubborn fleck of dirt on this glass.

 

"Aw...What'd he do?" Sugarspice Sandy croons, not entirely genuinely, but not all the way mocking either. "Steal your lunch money?"

 

"I— No." _Dammit_. "Just—I walked in on him with a client." Jared's face is warm, and not just from the temperature in the bar. It's like watching a train crash on a loop inside his head, his hand on the door and pushing it open, _What was I thinking?_ and _Holy shit, holy shit_ , and skin. Just. Endless skin. Pale and freckled and sometimes neither, sometimes—

 

"Yup," Sandy says, flicking Dan's crop, "That'll do it."

 

Jared clears his throat, dragging his mouth— _mind_ out of the gutter. "He always so...?"

 

"To strangers," Dan cuts in, an edge to her voice that lets him know, in detail, just what she can do with that flayed whip on her belt. "Yeah. He can be a little shy."

 

He tries his best not to scoff, but it must still show on his face. Jensen. Shy. The man looks even better in clothes than he does out of them, and Jared's not entirely sure how that's possible with a b...with a, you know, with all that—skin. He’s wearing those , worn and torn in exactly the right places so that they'd look alluring on a headless mannequin, and Jensen definitely has a face. Head. Whatever, he looks good. He looks like someone who should feel comfortable wearing nothing at all. Well, he sort of does.

 

Suddenly he is very differently inclined, because that is Dommy Dan's crop resting against his jugular. "You caught him naked. He's a little embarrassed. We're hookers, not slutbots."

 

His stomach flips over, with guilt and the stark image of the hooker she's talking about with his lips stretched wide around that ball gag and his lined eyes sparking they were so mad. "I didn't mean—" he tries, then opts for life when Dan flicks her crop away.

 

"Don't sweat it, honeybuns," she smirks, holstering the thing without looking. "You're new."

 

Jared ducks his head and swallows, shoving thoughts of Jensen aside, promising to cut the loop short this time. He'd been doing pretty well until Jensen came to his barstool—getting to know some of the girls, learning the workspace—and no one is looking too hard at why Jared's nursing an edgy sense of ownership after two hours on the job. Speaking of which. "Ladies, can I get you anything else?"

 

"Dick in the Dirt."

 

"Screaming Multiple Orgasm on the Beach."

 

"Redheaded Slut." They all look at Dan and her very long, very cherry dyed hair. "Oh come on, I get the eyebrow after Dick in the Dirt?"

 

It would really help if the girls stopped ordering the most obscene drinks they can come up with, but he’s not going to hold his breath.

 

"I made it up," Sandy claims defensively, and they start arguing lightly until Jared plops the drink down in front of her. She blinks. "What is it?"

 

"Peach schnapps, 151 proof rum, Southern Comfort, Yukon Jack, Pineapple juice, Cranberry juice, and Grand Marnier."

 

"Sweet," she prims after a stunned moment, tugging at the ties of her naughty sailor girl outfit. "I've been feeling nautical today."

 

Jared laughs with them, and some of the knots loosen in his chest until he sees the long haired man in the back—who's been here since Jared opened—watching him under his lashes, Jensen making a bee-line for his table.

 

He can do this. He can make anyone like him. That's why he's good at being a bartender.

 

Jensen was just embarrassed.

 

~*~

 

"Are you seein' this?"

 

Christian Kane's whiskey rough voice is low and incredulous, but the rest of him is relaxed in a way that makes Jensen think 'this' is not such a huge deal, whatever it is, more of a 'principle of the thing' than an actual issue. So he can't help but scowl at the person Chris isn’t so much worked up over.

 

"She fired Phil!" Chris sneers like it's the most ridiculous idea he's ever heard. "You know what his extracurricular activities were? Smokin' _weed_. On the clock, yeah, in her office but— He wasn't even bunny fucking!"

 

"Don't call us bunnies, dickwad," Jensen growls, not even bothering to hit him this time as he shoulders his way to a seat in the booth. "Besides, who'd fuck Phil?"

 

Jensen has an eye for judging which of the help he trains are going to make it—and he trains them all to some degree, under orders from Sam—so Phil getting sacked isn't so much a big surprise. No one really knows why Jensen is Sam's unofficial go-to guy, except for a couple of regulars dumb enough to think it has to do with his own extracurricular activities. God. Sleeping with Samantha Ferris? He'd rather take on that guy from Cincinnati with the snake fetish.

 

"Who wouldn't fuck the new guy is gonna be her new problem real quick," Chris points out, easing back on his hind chair legs as Sugarspice Sandy, Double D, and Cinnamindy tuck themselves against the bar for their break. Even Misha is hovering a little close for someone with a potential client all-but plastered to his side, especially one pouting so prettily for Misha's attention.

 

Jensen's getting a headache. "When did this happen?" he asks, rubbing his temple. Sam keeps the heat turned up in the bar area to encourage less clothing in Enthrall 'Em Ranch, which doesn't help, but the beer Dimples gave him does (not that he'll ever admit it). "And what—what's the yeti’s name, anyway?"

 

"You interested, Jenny?" Chris asks, rumbling voice quiet and askance. The only dick Kane's interested is the one in his pants, but that doesn't mean shit when it comes to the people in Sam's employ, and that goes double for Jensen.

 

"No." The word comes out a little sharp, but he keeps his eyes on the way Dimples flips a vodka bottle underhand over his shoulder to catch and pour for the girls while they 'ooo' and applaud. "Misha's gonna lose that hook if he keeps this up much longer."

 

"Jared."

 

"What?"

 

"Jared Padalecki."

 

"...The hook?"

 

"The bartender," Chris corrects with a look that calls him dumber than a ten pound bag of hammers.

 

"Yeah, well, Paddywhack fucked me over for an hour's unpaid pegging. Excuse me for not fawning at his feet."

 

Chris's eyebrow arches, rest of his face impassive around a swig of beer and a cursory wince. "Nobody said you were."

 

Misha is new—six months new—and he, Jensen, and Mike make up the three musket _steers_ (ha) of Sam's Enthrall 'Em Steer 'N' Bunny Ranch, though there's no question as to top billing. Misha only works part time, Thursday through Sunday plus special appointments when the others need a third, and he's a strict bottom for reasons Jensen wishes he didn't know. And Mike... Well, Mike has a very select clientele.

 

But even if he's never shown any inclination of climbing higher in the pay grade, there's no excuse for Misha to so blatantly _slack._ The hook's all but gagging for it, and all Misha can seem to muster up are a handful of lovenips and some PG13 petting.

 

"What are you even doing down here, man?" Chris asks, snagging back his focus.

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"I mean two big appointments already today, Jen. You don't need to work the night shift, and it sure sounds like you don't wanna."

 

"I'm not—" Jensen stops and shifts, a sharp huff of air shoving out of his lungs. "I've been fucked over all week, and this—"

 

"Jenny? You're a hooker. Prostitute. Lady of the even—Hey, now," he sidetracks, easily fending off Jensen's cuff upside the head. "I'm just saying, if you wanted to be wined and dined? You picked the exact opposite kind of business."

 

"I didn't say fucked," Jensen grumbles around the lip of his bottle, eyes wandering back over to the bar. "I like getting fucked. I don't like getting fucked over. If a couple of Nigerian businessmen say they want to take turns 'reaming my ass' I expect them to fucking follow through, not halfheartedly pass me around until they chuck me to fuck each other."

 

It isn't fair, and he knows he sounds petulant and unprofessional or what the fuck ever but he's _tired_. He  had been entertaining thoughts of vacation, just the weekend off maybe, and now he has to stick around and break in the new bartender. _Goddamn_ it. 

 

"Seriously," Chris says suddenly with a sharp kick at Jensen's ankle with his steel-toed boot, talking right over Jensen's sharp hiss of pain. "Debunch your fucking panties, princess."

 

"Sonofabitch!"

 

"I'd say wash your mouth out with soap, but I bet you already do, knowin' where it's been."

 

"Classy," Jensen forces out, voice still a bit strained.

 

"C'mon Jenny. So your ass is a little sore, what the fuck else is new? Why you gotta be hating on the new guy?"

 

"You've been hanging out with Aldis again, haven't you?" Chris kicks him again, but at least this time the brunt of it catches on his shoe. "Jesus, alright! Why the hell do you care if I make nice with the Paddington Wookie?"

 

Chris gives him another scathing look. "That guy over there holds the key to all the free liquor I can drink and still keep my job. I will drop you like a hammer if I have to."

 

"Liar."

 

"Call me on it," Chris growls and shoulders him out of the booth.

 

Jensen's half way across the bar, trying to turn his face into something a little less surly and a little more apologetic, when Misha finallycatches his eye. The potential client is as in Misha's lap as physically possible while standing, and Misha's dark blue eyes show a spark of pleading when he leans away and raps his knuckles on the bar like he's ordering a drink. Jared—and Jensen does remember the name perfectly, damn it—looks a little confused when he doesn't say anything, and then Jensen sees the exact way Misha's holding his fist.

 

He has the hook out of Misha's arms and pinned to the bar before Dimples—Jared—can ask what kind of beverage he wants, gathering the smaller boy's wrists in his hands so he can move in close, touching every inch from clavicle to kneecaps.

 

"Hey there," he purrs, sweet and low just to watch those big brown eyes go wide. "I’m Jensen."

 

"I—Milo. Can I help you with something?" There's a scar on his lower lip that likes to pull his mouth into a sneer, and coupled with yards of leather, yeah, he can see how Misha mislabeled him at first. Something about it, though, is making Jensen's blood warm quicker than it has all day. Maybe because some part of him likes the idea of the little butch boy showing his true colors, bent under him and begging for it. Maybe because—

 

Jensen flicks a glance to his left just to make sure Misha's not scarred too badly, and gets snagged, hard, on Jared. On his face. On his eyes.

 

He looks... Jensen doesn't have time to describe it.

 

"Rules been explained to you?" he murmurs instead, attention focused back one hundred percent on the boy in his arms.

 

"Well, yeah," the guy, Milo, says, hint of breathlessness creeping through the annoyed edge he's trying for. "That's why—"

 

"Good." Jensen lets his hips roll, a slow bone melting grind that not even Milo's tough guy act can fully withstand, and the man's eyes roll up a little under the lightning flash flutter of his eyelashes just before Jensen drops The Line. "I know what you want."

 

Milo shudders top to bottom, no pun intended, and Jensen's grin turns a little feral when it barely even shows on his face. "Oh yeah?" He likes a challenge.

 

Jensen tells himself it's not a whim, that it's a carefully calculated move pieced together from what he saw of Milo all but humping Misha in public. So grabbing Milo's hair just hard enough to tilt his head back until Jensen can speak against his ear has nothing to do with his newfound exhibitionist streak.

 

"Gonna fuck you. Gonna hold you to the bed so when you struggle and try to take control I can fuck you harder, slower, whatever I'm in the mood for and you're gonna take it, aren't you? Yeah..." It's almost better, knowing that anyone standing on the left side of the bar can only watch Milo's reactions flicker across his eyes and the flush on his cheeks. "Hell yeah, I know what you want."

 

He definitely doesn't look anywhere else when Milo starts fumbling for his wallet, just catches him by the wrists and pulls him upstairs, doesn't think about anything else after he has the money tucked into the lock box next to the bed.

 

He'll apologize to that Jared guy tomorrow.

 

\---

 

Or in an hour, because Milo tips well enough that Jensen kind of has to walk him to the door. The door of the bar. It's a negotiated tip.

 

Apparently Jensen wasn’t wrong about that showman's streak.

 

Tonight especially Jensen doesn't have to work at all to keep the smug smile on his face from a job well done. Milo's hair is absolutely shot, eyes happily glazed and strange mouth pulled into a smirk that fuels Jensen's afterglow quite nicely, so nicely in fact that he flattens Milo against the doorframe, cool night air half washing over them where they're actually standing outside. He's a good kisser, his client, and Jensen takes a couple extra seconds to savor it.

 

"Come back any time," he says, and actually means it more than most times he's required to say the words.

 

"Yeah..." Milo smiles, lopsided, and bites one last time at Jensen's lip before he pulls away.

 

They both know if he ever does come back, it's not going to be for anything serious. Milo's too smart to blow money on an imaginary boyfriend, which is the lucrative part of their income. If he does come back, it's going to be for the exact same thing that brought him here before—confidence boost.

 

Jensen hopes Milo's new boyfriend is the best damn top in the state, because the kid definitely deserves it.

 

He needs something to drink—not alcoholic, just something cool to bring up to his room—and he has completely forgotten about the new bartender. In the way that, you know, he hasn't at all.

 

It's just Double D, a.k.a. Dommy Dan up at the bar now, twirling the end of one of her leather straps through the sparkly crimson drink in front of her. Jensen wonders what idiot bought it for her and why they bolted before the main course. Maybe buying a dominatrix a drink was enough to get their rocks off.

 

He's stalling. He knows he's stalling. He just doesn't know why.

 

Chris catches his gaze from across the room from his post, gives him a smarmy thumbs up. Jensen rolls his eyes and goes.

 

Up to the bar, couple seats down from DD with a cursory nod. Jared—well, Jared barely spares him a glance, not even bothering to raise his head from the drink he's mixing, but he does say, "Be with you in a second," and the blatant politeness makes Jensen's stomach churn a little guiltily.

 

"So," he starts after Jared hands off a couple martinis to a man with his eye on Danneel. It certainly doesn't hurt that Jared has to ease over to his side of the bar to give them privacy.

 

"So." Jared looks up, and Jensen for some stupid reason can't hold it longer than a second. He's blushing, too, can feel the heat high on his cheeks and not for the first time curses his complexion. He needs to get out of here and back to his room to shower off the scent of sex and sweat and Milo, collapse into his bed and not move until late tomorrow afternoon.

 

"It's, um. It's been brought to my attention that I'm kind of an asshole." Jensen winces the second the words are out, gruff and very much asshole-esque.  

 

"Kind of late in life to be learning that about yourself," Jared says almost teasingly, and Jensen can hear the country slipping back in where his accent had been bland and generic before.

 

"Yeah, well, being an asshole is kind of part of the job description." It's supposed to sound patronizing, but it comes out instead as a really lame attempt at a joke. He's scratching the back of his neck without realizing it, a habit he thought he'd broken himself of years ago. "Could've handled it better, is all I'm saying."

 

"Yeah, you could've," Jared says, like he's talking about someone else, and Jensen doesn't even realize he's looking until Jared's face splits in a 99% genuine dimpled grin. He's kind of too stunned to think about the 1% left to do anything but take the hand the bartender offers. "I'm Jared. Padalecki. It's a rough last name so—don't sweat if you can't remember. Just call me Jared."

 

"Jensen," he answers tentatively, not sure what's happening but smart enough to go with it. "And I'd—I'd take that drink, if it's still on the table."

 

"Sure, man," Jared says with such a barely concealed note of surprise in his tone that when Jared actually asks him what he wants, he cannot remember the word 'beer.'

 

"Uh," he says instead, and levels a finger down to where Danneel's blood red drink lies forgotten. "Anything but that. I’d even—Can I buy you something? You know, to make up for being an asshole?”

 

Jared smiles, low and lopsided. “Naw, ‘s okay. Not on an empty stomach.”

 

When Jared slides a butterscotch colored shot glass to his fingertips he waits until Jensen's half-way through a sip to tell him what it's called, and even as Jensen's snorting Cocksucking Cowboy out his nose he can't really hate Jared when he's laughing like that. As much as he'd _like_ to.

 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he promises, quickly mopping up the mess and pouring Jensen a glass of water. "God, I've been saying that a lot today."

 

"This is—" Jensen coughs, trying not to hack up a lung, "Punishment, right? For being short with you?"

 

"Look kind of short on your own—from this angle, anyway. I'd thought you'd swallowed," he adds before Jensen can throw the shot glass at his head for the lighthearted jibe.

 

"Kinky," Jensen chokes out just to see if he can make Jared blush purple. "Seriously, _Cocksucking Cowboy ?_ The hell is that a drink."

 

"Equal parts butterscotch schnapps and Bailey's," Jared swears, holding up two fingers like an alcoholic boy scout...which might also be another drink. Christ. "Or if you add Southern Comfort it's a Cocksucking Cowboy with Spurs."

 

"I have my own spurs, thanks."

 

Maybe the light is funky, but it looks like Jared just blushed even darker.

 

Jensen scrubs a hand over his mouth in case there are stray drops of…not come, for once, and he's a little bit thrown off at how genuine his smile feels under his fingers. He's not entirely sure whether to cling to the unease at feeling so quickly _at ease_ or shove it away, so distracted he almost doesn't hear it when Jared offers him something real to drink.

 

"Uh, no. Thanks." His smile feels a little less bright, but hopefully the light sound from his palm hitting the bar is enough to distract Jared long enough to slide off his barstool. "I should probably hit the sack." Something flickers across Jared's face, but Jensen's used to everything he says being twisted into an innuendo and lets it slide. "See you in—tomorrow."

 

"Yeah, I—It's just—" Jared stammers to a stop so Jensen does too, half turned away. For one horrible second he's afraid Dimples somehow missed the multitudes of memos stapled to his forehead about who Jensen is, what he's doing here, and is actually going to ask him out.

 

Because _that_ always ends well.

 

"Sorry. I'm not usually such a verbally handicapped idiot. Sam said something about you showing me..."

 

 _He's already seen everything_ , Jensen thinks with the start of a frown, and watches Jared's eyes shift silently as he picks up on that. "The ropes or something," he finishes finally, and Jensen tries not to be too obvious about it when he relaxes.

 

"She won't have our hides if we do it tomorrow," he says—promises, really—even if he can't quite meet the new bartender's eyes right now. "What time does your shift start?"

 

"Six." Jared says it like this is more than he expected. Jensen doesn't know what 'this' is, though.

 

"I'll be here. Six o'clock it'll be pretty slow, and it won't take long to go over things." Jensen gives him another quick smile and leaves, making his way across the clumped but nearly packed floor.

 

"So," Kane drawls knowingly as he sidles close, "How'd it go?"

 

"Made it worse."

 

Chris chuckles and smacks Jensen's flank as he walks by. "That's my boy."

 

The uncomfortable throb in his ass has dulled somewhat, and he feels well worked over, blissful even on the endorphin high. That's all. Anyone would be in a good mood.

~*~

Jared feels like he's coming down with something by the end of work, which is just the cherry on top of everything else gone wrong his first day. His stomach is still hot and tight by the time he drives the half hour home to his tiny little apartment on the outskirts of Vegas—and it is exactly half an hour, according to Sam, because she had it clocked before she even bought the property. "You drive thirty minutes for sex you're gonna be on your best behavior to make sure that happens," were her exact words when he came in for the interview this morning, and she said it like it applied to him too. _You drive half an hour to work means you need it._

 

She’s not wrong.

 

His apartment is dark and humid when he opens the door, tight and empty, and he misses his babies something fierce when there's nobody home to greet him. It's not like it’s his choice they’re not here, but it doesn't make the ache go away.

 

There's no plausible reason his brain should segue from that to Jensen, but it does. Again. To the way he caught that guy against the bar, the way Jared's stomach swooped in sympathetic panic that the guy's boyfriend was going to take it bad, the way his blood wouldn't stop pounding even when the boyfriend...well, he's not exactly sure what he did, but it wasn't cut Jensen across the jaw with a right hook. He was just gone, and Jensen was left whispering god knows what could make that boy in his arms pant like that.

 

Maybe that's when he started to get sick.

 

All he knows is he wasn't all the way better when Jensen came back to the bar, hickey blooming under his jaw and a thin sheen of sweat everywhere his clothing showed skin. And he—he _smelled._..not _good_. But not really bad, either.

 

Jared's in bed by the time his mind gets to the part where Jensen left, sprawled on top of his sheets in just his boxers and he's still too hot, air conditioning already broken when he moved in last month.

 

He doesn't sleep much for what's left of the night, wakes up sticky from sweat and (great) come, from a dream he can’t remember other than flashes of freckled skin. It doesn’t actually hit him how tired he is until he's sitting through his first lecture class of the day, then it’s all he can do to stay awake.

 

“I approve of this note-taking method.”

 

Jared’s eyes snap open to big block letters telling him, “THEY HAVE HOOTERS, WE HAVE DICK’S.” Suddenly falling asleep is not so much on the table.

 

“Chad,” he growls, voice sleep heavy. “What are you doing straddling my desk?”

 

“If you’re planning on writing Prof Nunally’s notes on the inside of your eyelids, how else am I supposed to copy them?”

 

Jared tries to decide whether shoving Chad off would damage the infrastructure, torn between ‘probably yes’ and ‘do I/can I care?’ Either way, he is seriously regretting ever taking Chad to Dick’s Last Resort bar in Excalibur for his birthday, and not just because it’s several months later and Chad still hasn’t managed to lose the shirt. “You could take your own notes.”

 

“The fun in that—where is it?” Chad spins off the tabletop and drops to the desk beside him, only to prop his feet up on Jared’s notebook before the poor thing gets cold. “Seriously, man, if you’re this wiped after your first day—”

 

“I’m fine, just—” He pauses to get some gunk out of his eye and has to wait even longer when that somehow turns into a yawn. “Just too wired afterward to sleep, you know?”

 

“Uh-huh,” Chad drawls, shoes rolling on Jared’s desk. Then he gasps. “Hey! Crazy idea! Why don’t you tell me where you’re tending bar so I can swing by and cheer you up? Sounds like fun, yeah?”

 

“Um, god, no?” The absolute last thing Jared needs to see in his lifetime includes Chad and a house full of prostitutes, and unfortunately, that ship has all-but sailed. Besides, he’d probably be stupid and hit on Dommy Dan, then be too chicken to back out when she brought out her assortment of whips and chains. Or get a little too friendly with that long-haired guy Jensen seemed friends with during that magic time when Chad gets so drunk he can’t actually distinguish between genders.

 

“Dude. What are you laughing at?” Chad demands in a low enough voice to let Jared know the class has started. Jared just shrugs and digs out his pencil, Nunally’s southern gentleman’s voice carrying over the crowd.

 

They’re half way through the introduction to The Introduction of Criminal Behavior Analysis when the door to the classroom slides open and shut, letting in a straggler Jared barely glances at before returning to his—

 

 _The hell?_ Jared nearly wrenches a muscle with his double-take, does stab himself with his pencil when his jaw falls open. Something he did must’ve caught the man’s attention—Jared can see them spark with recognition before those dark eyes shutter down.

 

“What do you think, Jay?” Chad whispers, smirking at their newest classmate, “He a keynote speaker, or just really into leather?”

 

“Nah,” Jared scoffs, ducking his head. He’s just that guy Jensen stole from his boyfriend at the ranch.

 

\---

 

Jared gets to work at five, partly because his second wind just hit and partly because he needs to go through the shelves and make a list of what they're running low on, which seems to be...not a whole lot. Phil may have been an idiot about some things, but the alcohol's well stocked and behind the counter is relatively clean. Jared runs out of things to do fifteen minutes after he arrives.

 

Okay, so he knew that it was a possibility that he’d see people he served at the ranch…that came out wrong, but still. He hadn’t been anywhere close to expecting it on his second day. He definitely didn’t think it would be someone in any of his classes.

 

That is a hell of a lot to know about someone you don’t even…know. Fuck, how does Jensen—or any of the other employees—do it? How do you bump into someone in the grocery store and deal with knowing that they like it up the ass, or only get off when they’re groveling and getting verbally abused or worse? There has to be a word stronger than awkward.

 

Nunally kept everyone a little late, which meant when Jared left for his next class it took a little legging to get there, but at least they didn’t have to make conversation. It’s not like anyone was looking particularly inclined to talk to him, anyway.

 

 _Maybe the guy will drop out or switch classes._ It’s supposed to be a comforting thought, but it just makes Jared feel guilty.

 

So maybe coming here early was also due to the fact that his upbringing is screaming at him to talk with this guy, and he really doesn’t want to. Maybe. Damn it.

 

There is not one soul in the bar or anywhere else Jared has an excuse to be, even though he saw a couple of dusty trucks parked outside. Even though there are definitely voices echoing along the walls.

 

Jared’s never really been that good at staying out of places that he shouldn’t. Exibit A: How He Met Jensen.

 

This at least doesn’t sound like sex as he’s walking, careful so his boots don’t make a sound, down the hall towards the stairs he knows lead up to the boudoirs and Sam’s office. There’s low but happy murmurs, and the slightly tinny voices from a TV leaking through the open door to the left of the stairs, almost tucked behind them out of sight. He shouldn’t go in. He’s not going to go in.

 

“Best part, best part!” someone says, and the volume leaps, other voices dropping to a hush.

 

Jensen’s sitting in the middle of a couch with a blond girl’s legs and a bowl of popcorn in his lap, another girl with _Grease_ ’s-Frenchy-pink hair popped up between his knees, and Sugarspice Sandy painting her toenails on his left. There are more girls on the floor next to Frenchy, all trashing themselves to the nines and artfully tearing their stockings, but at this precise moment every make-up slicked face is turned to watch that one guy who played Angel on _Buffy_ talk to some chick in a bikini.

 

“Oh god,” Bikini says, and Jared catches more than three of the girls mouthing sappily along with the show, “She was _so sweet._ ”

 

This chick couldn’t act her way out of a wet paper bag—even the Angel guy looks vaguely embarrassed—but Sandy lashes out to clutch Jensen’s forearm in excitement. Jared’s only getting better at reading body language the longer he tends bar, and everyone in the room is radiating an easy familiarity that doesn’t show up out front. In fact, it’s almost impossible to keep the tension knotting his shoulders from dissipating.

 

“She was really an actress, you know,” Bikini continues, “Like how I’m really a singer?”

 

“I’m really a slut!” Frenchy woops in a hoarse kind of falsetto to a chorus of enthusiastic cheers. Jensen and Sandy throw popcorn at the screen even though kernels stick to her nails and Bikini continues to mourn, “None of us…really want to be…what we are…”

 

“Just suck his dick already!” Jensen hollers, and it catches Jared so off-guard that he snorts, loud and ugly.

 

Just in time for a muscled black guy to get well into his space, finger so close to his eye Jared almost loses it. “You supposed to be in here?”

 

Jensen spills the popcorn bowl on Frenchy’s head with a stuttered curse that makes Jared flush warm, attention only snagged by the fact that when Frenchy belts out a similar curse, it’s about ten octaves too low.

 

“Jebbuf Jenfen!” She—he— _he_ yanks the wig off his perfectly shaved head, but not before stuffing several more kernels of popcorn into his already full mouth. “Mah har!”

 

“Jared!” At least Jensen doesn’t sound like he’s, uh, mad exactly. Surprised, yeah. He’s wearing…well, he’s not exactly dressed work appropriate, soft grey long sleeved shirt and normal jeans and thin wire rimmed glasses that do something to Jared’s pulse he doesn’t look too close at.

 

“Uh, hey!” Jared knows his shoulders are up around his ears, but there’s not much he can do about it other than make sure his smile looks as sheepish as he feels, turning it on the room’s occupants. “I’m the new—“

 

“Bartender,” Jensen cuts in, like Jared was planning on saying something else. “He’s okay, Aldis—”

 

“Oh, hey, man! Keeper of the _keys!_ ” The same hand threatening him moments earlier claps his shoulder twice, bright smile breaking across the other man’s features. “Aldis Hodge. Chris never said I’d get someone my height on the playground. Finally, the Goddess has provided aid in lording it over the little people.”

 

“Hey!” Sandy’s protest comes with another handful of couch popcorn, which goes wild.

 

“I, um. Jared Padalecki, nice to meet you.” The TV’s still running, and the few girls who aren’t staring are watching idly. “I’m sorry, are you a—?” Because if anyone looked less like a hooker, but Jared’s judgment has already been proven faulty once this week.

 

“Me? No. All the ladies wish, right? Right?” More popcorn and jibes thrown their way, none of them serious. “Surprised Jen hasn’t given you the run down, though,” Aldis says with the start of a frown creeping in.

 

“Hello, right here,” Jensen claims, fighting his way up from the couch with a pat to the blond girl’s ankles. “Sorry, Kristen, rain check? Kay, thanks, hon.”

 

Hearing Jensen use endearments…kind of makes his chest tight. He’s not too sure why.

 

“You’re early.” Jared can’t tell if Jensen’s angry, but he’s definitely not happy. His fingertips won’t leave the hem of his shirt alone.

 

“I—Yeah,” Jared says, keeping his tone up and friendly, “I came to make sure we were all stocked up, and, sorry, I just heard voices and—”

 

“Snooped.”

 

“Haha, you’ll have to excuse Jensen, he’s just a little shy around strangers,” Aldis laughs with another smack that sends Jared stumbling forward a step before he loops an arm around Jensen and _squeezes,_ same as the words through his teeth the way a mom would while telling her kid to behave. “Ain’t that right. Jen,” Aldis adds before Jensen can even open his mouth to respond, “I hate to point this out but, the time?”

 

“I know. I’ve—” Jensen’s hand stops half way to the back of his neck and drops back down to his side. “I’ve got to change.”

 

Jared makes his eyes widen in exaggerated surprise. “You mean you aren’t going as a sexy librarian?”

 

Hoo, boy, does Jared know he’s pushing it, but Jensen only goes blank a second before pulling a face.

 

“Very funny. Come on,” he adds with a sigh, taking off his glasses to polish as he heads out of the room and up the stairs, Jared trailing a little helplessly in the wake of that almost-smile. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

 

~*~

 

Jensen apparently woke up with a brain tumor, because he just inadvertently invited the new bartender to see his apartment. Because he has never, ever been this stupid before.

 

 _Careful, Ackles,_ his brain tumor smirks, _you’re getting dangerously close to making a friend._ Jensen tells the tumor to go fuck itself.

 

“Entertainment room,” he blurts without checking to see if Jared’s behind him when he opens the door, but only because he heard him thumping up the stairs like an elephant with turrets. “For, ah, lack of a better term.”

 

“Looks different without the naked people,” Jared says, easy smile sliding through in his tone.

 

Jensen tries to look at it the way Jared is, taking in the dark purple silk sheets on the huge four-poster, framed on the wall with thick velvet curtains strictly for decoration and high enough off the ground that they won’t get stained by activities that don’t make it to the bed. The walls and floor are stained cherry-wood red, dark enough to make any skin tone stand out stark and beautiful, and the furniture is elegantly reinforced with steel, but not so anyone would notice. To the left of the bed is a nightstand with a ripped off Tiffany lap bolted to a surface too tiny to sit on comfortably anyway, with one lone drawer that’s not so much locked as it has a secret catch Jensen has to press to pop it open and get to the money box.

 

Okay, so maybe Jensen can’t be objective about this. Jared probably thinks the place looks opulent and inviting, the way it’s supposed to, but he really can’t tell from Jared’s expression what he’s thinking. Jensen frowns a little at that; he’s not used to being thrown for a loop when reading people.

 

“Toy closet. Bathroom.” So what if his voice comes out a little terse? “And my room is back here.” Another hidden catch in the wood paneling that Jensen makes sure Jared doesn’t see, and a section of it pops back and slides into the wall.

 

“ _Nice_.” Jared actually sounds legitimately impressed. “That is so cool. Very James Bond.” He even tries for the Sean Connery accent, so Jensen gets to watch him blush when he fails. “Okay, seriously, did you say toy closet?” he adds as he follows Jensen through, just in time for the smile to slip off his face.

 

Jensen likes to call the back room his apartment (in his head), because he does live there, after all. He has a fridge crammed next to a sink and a microwave to make room for the double bed that has far fewer duck feathers and is much, much better for his back. His TV is something ridiculous that Danneel and the girls pitched in for his last birthday, and he just today got all the chords for his dvd, xbox, and playstation hooked up so the controller for guitar hero is still lying out and on the floor with last night’s clothes he was too fucking tired to move three feet into the laundry basket.

 

“Wow,” Jared says, word loose and awed.

 

“Sorry it’s kind of a mess.” Cool. Aloof. Man of the world. And his hand is back on his fucking neck. His _bed_ isn’t made.

 

“Not expecting company?”

 

“Ha ha,” Jensen says before he can try to wrap his head around what Jared meant. “I mean, no. This is—this is just for me. It’s mine.” Jensen finishes tugging up the navy comforter, takes a breath, and has his game face on by the time he sits down. “Most of the full-time girls and I—and Mike actually, the one in the pink wig—we all have apartments here, off the entertainment suites. Not all of them sleep in the back. The beds out front are very comfortable.”

 

“But not good enough for you?” Jared picks his way across the floor like an expert, only pausing once to nudge the box to Madden with his shoe and a smile.

 

Jensen’s own smile is a little tight, even though he knows Jared’s joking. He’s just going to be shattering a shit ton of bubbles already tonight without share-and-caring the fact that sometimes after a long day Jensen has to curl up with a heat pack and some ibuprofen, and that’s less fun on silk sheets.

 

“Go ahead and sn—check out the toy closet while I get dressed, Padalecki.” He throws the word out there, off the bed and on his feet before he looks up, gets stuck. “What?”

 

Jared’s _beaming_ at him, even though Jensen hasn’t made eye contact once and almost called him a nosy snooper _again_. Jensen’s so stumped he almost can’t make his brain comprehend the English language when Jared finally talks.

 

“You remembered my name. I mean, you didn’t even fumble.”

 

“Jesus,” Jensen mutters, shaking out a pair of pants so he can tell if they’re the ones that have ripped past the point of any sort of public wear. “Think I’d saved your unborn child.”

 

Jared just laughs and shakes his head, and maneuvers his way back through the door to poke around the sex toys.

 

Jensen’s just finished shimmying into a pair of just-this-side-of-too-tight jeans and half-way through putting in his contacts before he catches his reflection in the mirror and realizes he’s smiling. He swallows it just in time for Jared to announce, “Okay, I’m a little bit confused.”

 

Jensen checks his reflection and walks out with his shirt bunched in one hand to hide the things Jared doesn’t need to see, only to decide a second later that there are a few things Jensen could go without seeing, too. Jared holding a stray boob like he’s not sure if it’s alive would be one of them.

 

“They’re breast implants,” Jensen sighs, holding up the other one for a quick second before heading towards the bathroom. “They’re for filling out a bra. G’head and try one on, princess—the lacy red one looks like your size.”

 

“Except they’re not planted,” Jared points out, ignoring him with his country creeping in, “So these here are what you’d call _Ims._ ”

 

Jensen rolls his eyes and shuts the door.

 

This is the nicest room by far, polished spotless by their cleaning help Eric and Kim, and the number one reason Jensen should not have allowed Jared up here while he was getting ready. Because for all the extra counter space and the steam shower for eight with Jacuzzi jets and a towel rack that’s just high enough to provide leverage if you grab on, this is the time and place Jensen has to slick up, and he should’ve thought of that before Jared Padalecki was on the other side of his door.

 

 _It’s not like I can’t be quiet_ , he thinks, slicking his fingers with a soft huff. _I’d just. Rather do it without an audience._  

 

 _It’s not like Jared’s got his ear to the door,_ smirks the tumor.

 

“Oh man. That is incredibly unrealistic.”

 

 _But apparently he’s going to talk the whole time_. Jensen’s stuck between rolling his eyes again and huffing louder as he shucks one leg of his pants and lets them pool around his other ankle.

 

“This is the porn industry,” he calls instead. “Realism doesn’t enter into it.”

 

Why the fuck is he talking normal to someone when he’s got fingers ready to shove in his ass?

 

“Okay, yeah, but—”

 

Jensen hisses and snatches his hand back like the door’s not locked and his mama’s about to walk in. Jesus.

 

“—there’s no way this would fit!”

 

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Jensen growls, not bothering to be loud enough, and slides his fingers home.

 

He sighs when he’s full, cock giving a low dull throb against his forearm. It’s a ritual, almost clinical by now, and the only reason he’s actually feeling it like any sort of foreplay is because he can’t make his body relax with another person listening in. He’s not wired that way anymore. So he tries to tell himself it’s nothing personal when he actually gets half-way to hard by the time he’s done, Jared blabbing the whole time about “ridiculous,” and “physically impossible,” and something about, “not a bone in your body.”

 

Jensen still takes extra care washing his hands, splashing cool water on his face to take away some of the flush. How badly for life does he want to scar this kid anyway?

 

The tank top Jensen planned to wear is more holes than fabric, so it takes little to no effort to put it on while following the sound of Jared’s disbelief. “Jared?” he sighs when it’s even more apparent that ‘checking out’ means ‘fondling’ in Padalecki.

 

“It’s as tall as my shoulder!” Before Jensen can stop him, Jared lets the six foot penis tilt, caught in his other hand like a mic stand—with his mouth open, like he’s about to sing, only with a dildo something gets lost in translation. Jensen’s brain stalls. “What do you do? Dance with it?”

 

One of those huge hands Jensen probably paid too much attention to last night palms as much of the plastic head as it can, then gives it a twirl.

 

“Dude.” Jensen stops it before it can take out someone’s eye, hands landing with a sharp clap on either side of the monstrosity’s intimidating shaft. “Stop groping my dick.”

 

Jared’s jaw drops—exaggeratedly, Jensen hopes—and freezes that way long enough for Jensen to stuff the prop back in the closet and head out the door. “My God, Mr. Ackles, was that a joke?"

 

“Shut up, Paddywhack.”

 

“Ah-ah! You know my name, no take backs.”

 

“Right. Jason, was it?”

 

“Not funny.” Jared’s shoulder feels nice against the expanse of skin Jensen’s left side is baring, so he doesn’t push him off right away. “So. What do you do with it?”

 

He asked. Jensen lets his head fall back, hitting Jared right in the face with 100% pure promise of a good time and answers, voice so low it’s almost a pulse, “I dance with it.”

 

~*~

 

Jared’s stomach bottoms out, and not for the first time since meeting Jensen Ackles.

 

“Okay, seriously, the things you’re doing to that straw are illegal in some states,” he points out, snatching the offending piece of plastic right out of Jensen’s mouth.

 

“Dude, gimme!” Jensen’s gaping, but it’s a lot more friendly than it would’ve been yesterday—or really, half a beer ago—and Jared counts it as a win. “I still have to work the place while I fill you in, and this? This is getting my tongue limber.” His hand makes a grabbing motion that is less grab than motion, if you catch his meaning, but Jensen’s eyes stay wide and oblivious.

 

Maybe Jared’s just horny. Hell knows it’s been a while. Fuck, _heaven_ knows it’s been a while. Dating is just…not something he’s been able to afford, recently.

 

“Here.” Jared sets a handful of fresh straws in a glass and leaves them on the counter. It’s not like there’s actually anyone in the bar yet for Jensen to work—all starry-eyed straight boys panting after silicone breasts, here to blow their load early and head back before their girlfriends get off the late shift. “Knock yourself out. Just, try not to pull a muscle.”

 

Jensen sticks his tongue out at him. It doesn’t matter if it’s so quick Jared could’ve missed it in a blink, it was there, and Jared feels warm like he swallowed hot buttered rum.

 

“So these ropes you’re supposed to show me,” Jared prompts when he clears whatever it is out of his throat, then has to do it all over again when he realizes the potential double entendre. “Uh. You wanna…go over those any time soon?”

 

“What do you think I’m doing?” Jensen’s eyebrow arches high enough to make the warmth flare, and Jared’s hands falter on the glass in his hand. “Trust me, kid, by the time I’m done with you you’ll be so disillusioned you won’t be able to see straight.”

 

“Oh my god, are you saying— Are you saying _Pretty Women_ lied?” Jared puts on the eyes that would guilt Satan into buying girl scout cookies. “You don’t all have hearts of gold and secret dreams of a better life?”

 

“No, we don’t.” Jensen’s voice is steady and amused. Immune. “Everyone under Sam’s employ is doing this because they want to. Some of us,” he adds, dropping to a murmur that makes Jared sweat a little, “even like it.”

 

“You’re shitting me.”

 

“I swear on Julia Robert’s teeth and Richard Gere’s hair.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Jared drawls and his eyebrow even arches, but it’s hard to come across remotely serious while fighting a grin. “So. Jensen Ackles.” He slides across the counter, expecting Jensen to back off a little—when he doesn’t, they’re almost nose to nose. “Do you enjoy it?”

 

For a second there’s nothing. Then Jensen gasps, and hiccups, and presses a fluttering hand to his chest. “Oh, oh my stars, no one’s ever asked me that! Being paid to have orgasms? Dear sweet baby Jesus I have seen the error in my ways.”

 

“Oh come on.” Jared can’t help rolling his eyes, even if watching Jensen flail like that has in all probability made his week. “Even I know it’s not as simple as getting off for cash.”

 

“It’s as simple as you want it to be,” Jensen shrugs, walls slipping back up as his thumb jerks over his shoulder. “Mike has a power point.”

 

No way is Jared touching that with a ten foot pole. “So seriously, none of you started turning tricks for food to save your starving children from a life on the streets? I’ll never trust Hollywood again.”

 

“Well,” Jensen admits grudgingly, “Cinnamindy’s a mother of two and I’m pretty sure Danneel forks over a good portion of her earnings to help out her sister’s kid, but yeah. You’re a victim of the media.”

 

Jared laughs. “Come on, what about—low self esteem issues and abusive childhoods? Daddy issues? Huh? I bet you were butt ugly until you blossomed into a beautiful little butterfly.”

 

“Yeah…” Jensen huffs out a laugh, fingers hesitating in their slow circles around his glass before he folds his hands, meets Jared’s gaze head on. “I barely escaped the Slovakian slave traders alive.” 

 

He’s joking—Jared knows he’s joking—but he still can’t grin until Jensen breaks, there’s something cold and wrong in his chest. But when Jensen _does_ break? It just about tops the flailing, and Jared snorts, can’t seem to help it, and decides to shake it off. “Okay, seriously man, I’m not completely naïve. You can skip the birds and bees part of the speech.”

 

“If you say so.” Jensen’s eyes are almost emerald green, studying him. Jared doesn’t know why he hasn’t noticed before, or even why he’s noticing now. The bar isn’t exactly well lit for a reason, a reason that does Jensen all sorts of favors he doesn’t need when he leans in closer. “Why do you think I snagged Misha’s mark last night?”

 

“Misha…?” It’s stupid—he knows who Misha is. Well, he does now that Jensen’s given that-guy-whose-boyfriend-Jensen-stole a name, and Jared’s too flustered to figure out how to put the fact that Misha’s-not-really-boyfriend is apparently in his Behavioral course into that hyphenation. “Oh, the—” Jared makes vague hair gestures with his hands before giving the go ahead face. Jensen just waits. “Oh, right. Yeah, I have no idea. Maybe…you get first pick?”

 

“No. I mean, not usually. No, Misha had his hand like—this.” Jensen holds out his fist, and, after hesitating, Jared goes to bump it. “Jared. Use your eyes.” And then Jared notices the thumb wiggling between Jensen’s ring and middle fingers.

 

“…Okay…?”

 

“Jared,” Jensen sighs again, this time taking Jared’s hand in his and molding it to the same position, talking while he does. “We have four guys on security, more if we know it’s going to be a big night. You’re part of that security whether you want to be or not, which means learning the signals. Last night, Misha showed me this.” He taps Jared’s strange looking fist. “What do you think he was signaling?”

 

Jared kind of hates the patronizing tone, but he has no fucking clue. “He’s…got your nose?”

 

Jensen’s eyes roll, hand covering Jared’s like it’s an embarrassment. “The hook was a bottom.”

 

“What?” Jared jerks his fist back, and not just because touching Jensen seems to fuck with his circulation. Yet _another_ thing he didn’t need to know about his new classmate.

 

It does look kind of obscene, now that he knows what he’s looking at. “So Misha doesn’t—”

 

“Top? Not under any circumstances, and trust me, you don’t want to know why. Misha’s…his own cup of tea.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Jared nods, slow so Jensen knows he thinks it’s a weird-ass saying. “So let me guess.” He flips him the bird. “Top?”

 

“No, that’s just you being an asshole.” But Jensen’s smiling as he says it, and having his hands touched feels probably better than it should. He can’t help thinking of that scene in Don Juan Demarco when Johnny Depp explains that a woman’s fingers are much like her legs, even though Jensen’s movements are far more perfunctory this time, a light smack and couple tugs until Jared’s first and middle fingers are extended and pointed down. “This is top.”

 

“Am I gonna have to learn sign language for this?”

 

“Shut up. It’s not that hard. And,” Jensen adds as an afterthought, “there are people around who’ll break your fingers if you don’t know.”

 

Jared swallows more than he means to. “Good to know.” And then he takes his fingers back, because contrary to popular belief, he does actually need them to tend bar.

 

“Just two more and I’ll get out of your hair,” Jensen promises, continuing before Jared can do more than open his mouth in protest. “These are the really fucking important ones, alright? This?” He crosses his fingers. “This is for the cameras especially so Aldis can send help, but if you see this out on the floor with any of the girls you catch Chris’s eye and you get him over there. Don’t—you know. Leave it to the professionals. It’s a tap-out, if the mark isn’t taking no for an answer. We don’t _have_ to sleep with any and every fella with a buck in his hands, and some folks don’t take kindly to it, so… Yeah. Sharp eye.”

 

Jesus Christ. Jared is going to throw up. Sandy’s so little, if anyone—

 

“Oh,” Jensen adds, backtracking to the bar before Jared even realizes he’s started to leave. “If things are looking a little rough but a girl gives you a peace sign, things are a-okay. And this stuff applies to Mike and Misha too.”

 

“Of course it does,” Jared mumbles, not too sure if it’s actually audible. He’s not dumb enough to ignore the one person rules don’t seem to apply to, but he’s also not dumb enough to bring it up.

 

Jensen’s fingers tattoo across the bar, and it’s like watching paint peel in reverse to see Jensen’s game face slide on. “See you in a bit,” he says like a promise, voice unconsciously dipping into what it was on the stairs.

 

It takes a couple seconds for anything to come out past the shaking laugh in his throat. “Aren’t you sticking around til we actually get some customers?”

 

“Nope.” Jensen’s lips pop on the consonant as he turns, walking backwards, and for a split second all Jared can see are ponytails. “Got a date.”

 

It’s so, so different from the fierce, rough guy who pinned Misha’s mark to the bar, so crazy it shouldn’t be sexy but fuck if Jensen’s ass draws any more attention as he flounces it might as well have a religion dedicated to it. The man whose arms Jensen jumps into seems to agree, if the way his hands mold to the curves and slide down, fingers following the inseam, have anything to do with it. He has oil tycoon stamped all over the studs in his pristine white cowboy hat, and watching him chuckle makes Jared’s own hat feel cheap and dust-worn where it’s sitting on a box of Cuervo.

 

“Ready, big daddy?” Jensen asks, nailing the voice this time and just loud enough to pick up across the empty bar room as ‘Big Daddy’ sets him on his feet.

 

“Depends,” Big—fuck it, Mr. Oil Tycoon rumbles, throwing an arm over Jensen’s shoulders and tucking him in tight to his side. “You been a bad boy?”

 

Jared misses Jensen’s reply, too caught up in trying not to gag or giggle loud enough to be heard, and the next thing he knows the two of them are headed upstairs, Tycoon’s greasy fingers in Jensen’s back pocket and Jensen—Jensen’s doing bunny ears behind the tycoon’s head.

 

At least now he’s leaning a little more towards laughing.

 

~*~

 

Bill Waterman—or “big daddy,” as he likes to be called—is an easy job, easy money, and if Jensen has to shower a little longer to feel clean it’s not his hot water bill. It’s the whole chirpy-little-school-girl gig without actually being a girl—he actually got some pointers from Sandy to try out this time which seemed to go over really well—and Bill left the cowboy hat on, which.

 

You know, whatever.

 

He just. He needs a drink, and then he’s going to catch a breather with Chris and recoup for a bit, then find someone who’ll help rub off the slime.

 

“Cocksucking Cowboy.”

 

“You serious?” Even if Jared’s smile doesn’t stick around long, it’s still really, really good to see it, see something honest and real. “Thought you might’ve had enough of that by now.”

 

It shouldn’t feel like such a shock to catch himself smiling back but he’s still ducking his head before he can remember that he’s an Experienced Prostitute and nothing should make him blush. “You know,” he muses, putting on a show, “before it went out my nose it wasn’t too bad.”

 

“Yeah, well. Might actually taste different without your sinuses involved.”

 

Jensen pulls off a kind of _right, right_ smile and then goes back to poking idly at a water ring on the bar. This is Jared’s territory, more than it ever was Phil’s or anyone before him, and it really shouldn’t be this difficult to start talking to each other _every single time_. Jared was hugging his giant dildo-saur for Christ’s sake.

 

Only, he’s never talked to Jared as a friend after getting fucked for money, and maybe it’s finally occurred to Jared that he can’t handle it. Jensen’s been through it with everyone he’s ever met outside the bar—some more…memorable than others—and no one’s stuck around long after they found out what he does for a living. There’s no reason Jared would be—

 

“Cocksucker,” Jared says.

 

“Excuse—? Oh, right.” He honestly does not have enough blood in his body for this. Gulping his shot and leaving before things get even more brutally awkward is really his only other option.

 

“So, sugartits,” Jared smarms, grabbing an (empty) shot glass of his own as he leans his elbows on the bar, “how you hanging?”

 

Big Daddy knocked something loose, apparently. “Um, what?”

 

And then Jared laughs, bright and easy and simple, and Jensen relaxes in places he didn’t even know could get tense. “I shit you not, that’s how some guy tried to pick up Mike earlier. I’m not even sure he realized Mike has something to hang.”

 

“Dude, you’re not supposed to diss on the clients,” Jensen drags out like a reprimand, but it’s not at all effective and he knows it. Then, “How could he not know Mike’s a guy? He has an Adam’s apple the size of New Jersey.”

 

“Ah, so that’s why Mike took off his feather boa.” For a second something flickers across Jared’s face Jensen isn’t sure what to do with, but it’s gone just as fast. “Okay, serious now, you okay?”

 

“Dude,” Jensen scoffs, then sobers up when he notices Jared actually means it. “Jared, man, I’m fine. Waterman is nothing to worry about—seriously vanilla. He doesn’t even tie me up.”

 

“Okay,” is Jared’s answer when it comes, “But when people do tie you up they use pre-approved knots and special water soluble rope. Right?”

 

Jensen meets his gaze for the first time since he left the bar and says, “Uh-huh.”

 

Jared sighs and mops up the water ring Jensen was playing with. “You’re a bad liar.”

 

“The hell I am.”

 

“The hell you are,” Jared agrees, almost resigned, then slides Jensen a cold Dos Equis, nodding to the back. “I’m not trying to pimp you out or anything, but that hombre has been eyeing you since you walked in.”

 

The man Jared’s gesturing to looks like a cross between Heath Ledger and Antonio Banderas, and as weird as that sounds the combination is not bad. He even looks a little shy, and that’s always a good sign. “Damn. I hope he sticks around for a while.”

 

“Why? He’s not talking to anyone now.”

 

“Jared.” He gives his lap a very pointed glance, trying to shake the paranoid feeling that Jared’s trying to get rid of him. “Give me a minute to recharge.”

 

Jared’s blush is high and dark, but nothing like what it was the first night. That right there should be the reassurance Jensen can feel himself needing that Jared’s going to stick around. But it kind of isn’t.

 

“Dude, you could try, like, talking to him while you recharge,” Jared points out, and Jensen’s stomach gives a little clench.

 

“Hey.” His fingers fit a little too perfectly around Jared’s wrist so he slips them down to his bar rag instead and gives it a tug. “Are you—” _Jesus_. “—liking it here okay? I mean, the hours and, you know, what we do…”

 

“Yeah,” Jared says, like he’s surprised to hear the word, then says it again with a smile to showcase his insane dimples and a slightly shaky sigh. “Yeah, it’s not bad.”

 

“Good.” Jensen should not feel as…warm and fuzzy as he does, so when he nods it’s around the bottle of Mexican beer, eyes cut to the taps like if he does no one will notice he’s smiling.

 

The problem, of course, is that Jared obviously does.

 

“Okay,” Jensen says, more to himself than anyone else and sets his beer down with a thunk, split second before he decides that leaving it there half empty is just a shame. Plus it’s a good prop, perfect to tip an imaginary hat to Jared as he spreads his legs and kicks off the barstool, backing across the dance floor as an earworm kicks on the overhead speakers.

 

 _Striptease for me baby…striptease for me baby…striptease for me baby…_

 

“Hell yeah!” Sandy hollers in his ear as he slides on by, setting off a spark in her hook’s eyes enough to make him step up his game. “I approve!”

 

Jensen approves too, especially when he’s easing over Antonio Ledger’s lap with his beer raised in a toast and the boy’s mouth is already open like Jensen being so close is cutting off oxygen, eyes glazing in amazed arousal. Jensen’s pushing it a little, but for someone this eager? He could swing it.

 

But Jared said talk, so he says, “Hi.”

 

“Hi,” Antonio squeaks.

 

Talking is overrated.

  
~*~

 

  
Jared is _freaking the fuck out_.

 

He managed to keep it somewhat under wraps until Jensen left, but he’s not exactly sure how and he’d be halfway out the door by now if people would just stop ordering shit and leave him alone.

 

Because he’s studying what it takes to be a Behavioral Analyst—or at the very least, taking the class so Chad doesn’t flunk—he has to have a certain amount of self awareness. Jared’s never liked lying, especially not to himself. But this— _this_ he could’ve used a little less honesty about.

 

Truth: Jensen is a decent looking human being. Well, duh. Ugly prostitutes probably have their niche, but not at this ranch.

 

Uncomfortable truth: Jensen looks even better after he takes someone up to his room, no matter how disgusting the individual is. He just. He relaxes, or something, and this happy, shy, glowing person shines through.

 

Hard, brutal, motherfucking truth: Jared likes seeing that Jensen too much.

 

He doesn’t know what _that_ means, thank god, because he has a _really bad feeling_ it has to do with that low clench in his gut he’s only gotten from—

 

No, no, not going there. He’s going to serve drinks until his hands fall off and not think about how he basically pimped Jensen out to get him the hell away for his bar before he lost the rest of his marbles. He’s going to think about how to make a martini verses a sidecar and the difference between an olive and an onion and not the way Jensen is grinding on that guy, shirt inching up murderously slow to show a glint of sweat at the dip of his spine.

 

 _Striptease for me, baby_ , the song urges, and Jared grits his teeth and asks his own client what the fuck he wants again. Only nicely.

 

He and Jensen don’t really talk much for the rest of the night, and twenty percent of that is because Jensen seems to like regrouping over at the long-haired bouncer’s table—Chris, Jared is pretty sure—but the other eighty percent is because Jared keeps finding people to point him towards, or send in his direction. _That_ , at least, is not feeding whatever this sick impulse is. That’s just self-preservation.

 

It’s what he tells himself.

 

It’s only every single time Jensen comes back downstairs that Jared breaks out in a sweat.

\---

 

Jared spends the first ten minutes of class tense as fuck waiting for Misha’s mark to show up, only to remember that this is Wednesday, and not his Behavioral Studies class.

On top of that he gets the third degree from Chad—who Jared isn’t even sure is _enrolled_ in this class—about where he works all through Morgan’s lecture on methodology in engineering.

 

“Seriously, unless it’s one of those fetish clubs on the back strip—“

 

“Chad,” Jared warns, scribbling down _Constraints may include available resources, physical, imaginative or technical limitations, and can be used on best friends named CHAD when provoked._ “Will you just—“ 

 

“Did you have something to add, Mr. Padalecki?” Morgan asks, and if Jared could fit under his desk he would. The Professor actually means it, as polite as the carnation he tucks in the lapel of every four piece suit he wears to class.

 

“He was just clarifying a point for me,” Chad jumps in, clapping Jared hard enough on the shoulder to make him drop his pencil; by the time he resurfaces Morgan has moved on to problem solving, and Chad is smirking guilelessly, tapping the corner of his mouth with Jared’s eraser.

 

“I hate you a lot,” Jared hisses under his breath.

 

“You can have it back when you write down the name of your bar,” Chad needles, almost soundless.

 

“I have other pencils, dickwad,” Jared lies, and something about watching Chad’s face fall—

 

Maybe it’s not seeing Jensen like that. Maybe he has some deep seated kink for seeing people post-coital.

 

Jared doesn’t have another pencil and half-way through the class his hand is cramping up holding the tiny stub of crayon to his nearly illegible notes, but the knowledge that he might not be so fucked blankets the burning in his belly well enough to get through the day.

~*~

Jared is one of those naturally gifted pimps you only hear about in urban myths, Jensen thinks to himself, smile teasing at the corner of his mouth, _and I am so giving him shit for it._

 

His hair is still a little damp at the back of his neck from his recent escapades in the shower. Not only have every single one of the people—male and female—that Jared’s lined up for him been good, honestly _good_ , whatever they wanted always turned out to be exactly what Jensen needed, before he knew he needed it himself. It’s _unreal_.

 

Jensen is riding a bit of an endorphin high but he likes it, likes that he has that extra bit of an excuse to hang out with Jared (though he’s never going to admit it). Jensen can’t remember having as much fun as he’s had in the past week since he started working at the ranch. He likes pulling faces at Jared’s latest drink inventions and making Jared laugh at the names he comes up for them, just likes talking to another human being without them expecting a damn thing in return. And that’s the plan as he hits the last of the stairs, right up until he notices the way Jared is serving the guy on the end.

 

It’s not anything obvious, is the thing. Jared’s wiping down the bar around him, everyone else within eyesight occupied, drinking, or both. This tan guy with his dark hair and blue eyes is the only one facing the bar, facing Jared, beer cradled between his hands and his eyes down—nice, not super shy, and if Jensen had to guess he’d send him to Sandy, not Misha.

 

But Jared’s not sending him anywhere. Jared’s talking to him. “So first off—gotta ask,” Jensen catches as Jared leans forward, everything in his body language warm and trustworthy, “Boy or girl?”

 

“Yes. Either,” Blue Eyes laughs, quiet and good natured, and Jensen’s hands go clammy and tight.

 

“Awesome,” Jared nods, completely nonjudgmental, even smiling. It shouldn’t be such a _surprise­_ —last night before closing Jensen saw Mike and Jared talking like seeing a man in an electric blue Shirley Temple wig and matching bustier was as normal as air, and Jared’s never even hinted at disapproval for the gender Jensen tends to take to bed. “Alright, question two: Do you know what you’re looking for? Redhead, brunette—”

 

“It don’t matter,” Blue Eyes sings softly with the song making the speakers thrum, smiling around his beer, and Jared laughs.

 

Jensen has never had a problem with swallowing but he is really regretting it now. Come is sitting like spoiled milk in his stomach, and he’s not too sure now about semen having an expiration date. Zack Safron (or whatever) had said it’d been a while.

 

“Okay, okay,” the guy placates, holding up his hands, “I’m sorry. Um, I don’t—I don’t really have a type, I guess but…not blond? And not redhead unless they’re a _natural_ ,” he adds with a wink Jensen wants to hate him for. If they’d just give him something to get angryat—

 

“Okay, well…” Jared leans a little harder on the bar, distracting flex of his forearms snagging Jensen’s attention against his will until there’s no way he can’t look at the dip of Jared’s dimples. “Think I’ve got it. See, over there in the red dress with those ”

 

“Really?” Blue Eyes asks, sounding interested even over the ringing in Jensen’s ears.

 

“You have no idea,” Jared groans, gliding a rag over the glass in his hands. He looks…better…than he was when he started at the ranch, a little bit lighter, less tense. Jensen really wants to look anywhere else. “And I’m telling you right now for free, Gen could suck a watermelon through the head of a pin.”

 

“Jesus.”

 

It’s not his name—Jesus or Genevieve—but Jensen still feels it like it is. Fuck. Jesus fuck.

 

Jared is…not bad. Not by a long shot, not even in the same zip code. Jensen has goosebumps and he’s fifteen feet away; Blue Eyes is subtly adjusting himself and Jared isn’t even saying anything crude.

 

Gen could suck a watermelon through the head of a pin. It’s not even a lie.

 

Jensen steps out of his hiding place without making a scene, eases through the dancers until he’s at Chris’s table and doesn’t look back.

 

“You okay, Jenny?” Chris asks instantly, whiskey-rough voice exactly the right balance between worried and on-guard, looking for someone making trouble. “Hey, hey, look at me. Many fingers am I holdin’ up?”

 

“Just enough to fuck yourself,” Jensen offers, no heat or inflection to it, then something in his ribcage falls and he folds himself into the booth across from Chris, slides until he’s tucked between the table and the wall. “I’m sorry. Nobody slipped me anything.”

 

“Yeah,” Chris says in that careful way that means he’s focused on Jensen beneath his lashes, has been for a while. “Have to order a drink to get it spiked.”

 

Jensen feels heavy, like his bones are made of lead, but he still meets Chris’s gaze head on so he knows he’s not lying when he says, “Been keeping an eye on your boy for you.”

 

Which means, once Jensen forces through whatever fog hits him when Chris refers to Jared as his boy, that Jared hasn’t been bunny fucking. It should make him feel better, but just makes him feel empty and angry. Like a fire licking the inside of a steel box, trying to find something to burn.

 

For the sake of his grinding molars, Jensen wishes he had something to chew on. Failing that he downs the rest of Chris’s beer in one gulp, just chugs it, doesn’t for once in his life think about the perfect way to make his throat work for the audience.

 

Which is just great, because apparently they have one.

 

“Hey, there.” Blue Eyes sidles up to their table with barely a hint of the shyness he showed at the bar, every move deliberate in the way that means he knows he’s getting sex, those eyes locked on Jensen hard enough to make his traitorous skin burn. “My name’s Mark.”

 

Several things Jensen is sure of, and one of them is that _it is not_. Doesn’t fucking matter, Jensen knows the dance, gets himself out of the booth and stays between it and ‘Mark’ so the guy can feel like he’s pinning him there by sheer masculinity. He lets his eyes smolder and burn the way they want to, forces a slight smirk so bean-dip-for-brains thinks it’s passion.

 

“I hear you’ve got a mouth on you.” His lips curl. "That you know what to do with it."

 

“Jen?” Chris growls, and that’s it.

 

“Come on, baby,” Jensen makes himself purr, catching Mark by the wrist to lead him upstairs. “I know what you want.”

 

~*~

 

Jared sees Chris coming for him before he sees Jensen leaving with Mark, but it’s close, seconds apart. His heart lurches hard in his chest, but he’s not outright panicking until Chris getsa leg up on a stool and _lands behind the bar_.

 

“Someone here must’ve told you not to get on my bad side.”

 

“Didn’t realize I had.” The guy is little but Jared has no illusions about who would win in a fight—he backs up, hands up, and the only thing keeping him from running is the spark of indignation that Chris is violating his space.

 

“Whatever you’re doing to Jen?” Kane snarls, fist curving around a tapped bottle of vodka, “You’re going to stop, right the fuck now.”

 

“What—what about Jensen?” Jared’s in Chris’s space without realizing he moved. If he figured Mark wrong— “Fuck, did you let him go off with that guy if he was acting—”

 

“Let him?” Jared should be scared by that tone, would be if he was paying any sort of attention and not focused on getting around Chris and out from behind the bar. “Hey!” Kane’s nails cut across Jared’s belly as he grabs a fistful of his shirt and yanks him back. “Now I’ve been very obliging to your little matchmaking service so far, but _you_ sent him Jen’s way—”

 

“I sent him _Gen’s_ way, _Genevieve’s._ ” The words are cutting through his teeth, and yeah, he’ll play the tall card if it gets him to Jensen.“I didn’t even know he was back on the floor.”

 

Kane considers for a minute that crackles like electricity over Jared’s shoulders, jaw working silently. “Aldis,” he growls quietly enough that it makes Jared’s teeth clench before he realizes Chris isn’t talking to him, head tilted so he can speak into the mic hidden in the collar of his shirt. “Aldis, I want you to keep an extra eye on Jenny-bean—” Jared would attempt a smile at the nickname or codename or what the fuck ever, but Chris’s expression goes utterly blank and Jared’s heart skips a handful of beats.

 

“Yes ma’am,” he finishes after a pause, then flips his grip on the vodka so it’s more of a beverage and less of a blunt instrument perfect for beating in heads. “You,” he tells Jared, leveling the bottle at him, “are going to Sam’s office. Do not pass go or any-fucking-thing else if you’re partial to your kneecaps.”

 

Jared just stops, blood draining out of his face.

 

“Hey,” Chris snaps, softer this time as he pulls him back. “Stay away from Jensen’s room, hear? He’s with a client.”

 

Like Jared doesn’t know.

 

Sam has the tape cued up for him in her office of the first time he did this, the way he stumbled through telling a tiny little brunette about how Jensen could make a girl come just by looking at them long enough, and all he can think is thank god the camera angle didn’t pick up how rough his own breathing was by the end of it, the way he pressed his hips against the counter when this woman went towards Jensen on trembling coltish legs, the way he didn’t notice til afterward how much money she’d slipped into his tip jar.

 

~*~

 

Jensen pulls off with a slick pop and the taste of latex heavy in his mouth. As much as Mark would’ve liked to ‘come down his throat in hot salty ropes,’ the truth is Jensen’s not an idiot, he knows his STDs, and he doesn’t do a damn thing without a condom with people who don’t show a current blood test at the door.

 

“That was…wow,” Mark pants, and Jensen thinks, _Haven’t heard that one before._ It’s the first time he’s felt bitter—fucked over—in a while, and boy did he not miss this feeling. He isn’t hard, didn’t even twitch, not up for working any more tonight in every sense of the word.

 

“Thanks, baby,” is what he says instead, letting the roughness in his throat pull off sultry for him.

 

Cleaning Mark up is perfunctory, warm wash cloth and tucking him back into his pants. At least the guy understands not overstaying his welcome. Jensen might take out an eye if he wanted to cuddle.

 

“So,” Mark adds a little awkwardly, one hand on the door and the other pulling Jensen in for a kiss, “Thanks.”

 

Jensen nips his lip and smiles and does everything he’s supposed to, so _why, god,_ is Jared the first thing he sees when Mark opens the door?

 

Jared has his back pressed flat to the wall opposite Jensen’s room, nails digging into the waist-high trim that only comes up to his hips, and he’s _bristling_. Mark jerks back a step; Jensen doesn’t blame him a bit even though he’s catching him with a hand at the small of his back to keep him from retreating too far.

 

When Jared doesn’t say anything, though, Jensen’s eyes flick back to his hands and notice he’s not so much taking his anger out on the trim as holding on for dear life.

 

That hollowed out feeling comes back real quick, if it ever left.

 

“Bye now, sweetheart.” Mark stumbles when he gives him a light shove, which would make Jensen feel bad if his heart wasn’t making a valiant attempt to go the wrong way through his esophagus.

 

“U-uh,” Mark stammers, “Thanks again?”

 

“Any time,” Jensen says, low and sweet without managing to tear his eyes away from Jared’s. Not that it matters; Mark’s out of sight already.

 

“So…” Jared’s voice is light and almost conversational, but his gaze is suddenly anywhere else, some of just how shaken he is bleeding through. “On a scale of one to ten, how much do you hate me?”

 

Jensen keeps his expression neutral with a chance of mild surprise, but the urge to slam the door is almost too hard to fight. He doesn’t _want_ Jared here. “Why would I hate you?”

 

“Because I was too caught up playing the Chocolat of hookers that I didn’t tell you about it, ask your opinion, or even find out if it was allowed?”

 

Oh…shit. Jensen knows that face, and for a minute he forgets to be pissed. “You got fired?”

 

Except Jared flinches, then laughs without any real sound to it. “No,” he says, scratching at the back of his head. “It’s kind of…worse than that? Maybe?”

 

“You gonna make me guess?” Jensen crosses his arms even though he knows Jared will read that as defensive, leans against the door and tries to cling tight to the anger he knows he was feeling a moment ago that somehow got diluted with the thought of Jared gone.

 

“Sam called me into her office… Yeah, I know,” Jared nods when something apparently shows on Jensen’s face, “but as it turns out, she—ah… She approves. Sort of.”

 

“Sort of,” Jensen repeats, incredulous note not so much creeping in as leaping to the forefront waving pompoms. “She sort of approves of you pimping out her girls.”

 

“No, that she definitely approves of,” Jared cuts in, almost too fast, then stops and huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Genevieve asked me to send blow jobs her way because her period hit a little early and she doesn’t want to miss out on any hours.”

 

Jensen involuntarily cringes. “That is so much information I didn’t need to know.”

 

“Dude, tell me about it. I had to do the same thing last week for Danneel and she actually went into detail about her blood flow.”

 

“Jesus, Jared!” And then because he doesn’t want to think about _blood flow_ he goes right into the next thought. “So this wasn’t a one-time thing.”

 

Jared actually looks stunned for a moment, and then ashamed, and then, flushed, he turns his face away for a subject change Jensen already knows he’s going to ignore. “Uh, so, Sam doesn’t think I can sell what I haven’t…driven.”

 

Except for that. “What?”

 

Jared looks so miserable and embarrassed and awkward it makes something in Jensen hurt a little—until the words happen and he’s suddenly hurting a _lot_. “She says I have to sleep with one of the guys at the ranch or I’m going to lose my job. Jensen, I _cannot_ lose my job.”

 

Jensen…is torn between snorting and snapping, “Is this a joke?” but nothing happens. He’s just kind of stuck there, staring at Jared. Waiting for his brain to replay the message in a way that makes sense.

 

“And I’m not—Mike’s great, but I’m not his type of guy or he’s not mine or—and then Misha doesn’t top—“

 

 _That_ gets Jensen’s mouth working. “You want to be topped?”

 

“I don’t fucking know!” Jared is officially too loud for the hallway, and that’s Jensen’s reasoning behind yanking him into the entertainment suite. He goes quiet the instant Jensen touches him, lips pressed shut and twin spots of color high on his cheeks while everything else is white. Jensen wants to sit him down before he falls over, but the obvious place is the bed.

 

(The _right_ place is the bed.) No.

 

“Hang on one second.” His voice is a little vacant and he curses silently as he walks to the wall, trying to get out of the game-face clinging to his features. “Maggie?” he says when the intercom snicks through and an elderly British woman answers, “Can you patch me through to Sam?”

 

“No can do, hotbuns, she just left for the night. But she did leave you a message.”

 

Fuck. “Yeah?”

 

“Yes. To…‘stop being a dickhead’ and that ‘you’ll get reimbursed.’”

 

“Oh, well, in that case,” he says and lets his head hit the wall, mumbling, “Thanks, Maggie,” into the woodwork.

 

“Also, ‘I have the video cameras working for validation, not blackmail.’ And that’s all I’ve got, Jensen, sorry.”  She signs off.

 

“Yeah,” Jensen offers quietly anyway, but doesn’t turn around. Then he takes a deep breath and does it without looking at Jared’s face. “We’re not doing this.”

 

“What?” Jared jerks back when Jensen reaches for him—to lead him _downstairs_ —scowl bright and annoyed. “The hell we aren’t!”

 

 "Come on," Jensen says, after he swallows against his heartbeat and levels Jared with a look. “You can’t need this job that bad.”

 

Jared is snarling in his face before Jensen sees it coming, back snapped flat against the wall. “You have no fucking idea about anything to do with me!”

 

“Well, whose fault is that?” Jensen snaps back when he can, when his throat works enough to speak—fuck, maybe Mark knocked something loose—“We’re barstool buddies, Jared! It’s not like you’ve invited me to hang with you outside the ranch—”

 

Shit. Jensen’s never let himself think about that, not even in the morning when he was vegging with the girls or playing Madden with Misha and Danneel and definitely not thinking about how it felt like—like something was missing out of some dumb ass fairy tale—

 

“And you know why?” he presses on, doing his best to sound reasonable and patient, non-judgmental, way-of-the-world. “Because I’m a whore. Because the first thing your friends are gonna ask is, “What do you do for a living?” and the conversation gets pretty stilted from there.”

 

Jared looks furious and hurt, jaw working a couple of times before it opens. “So I was supposed to guess that you wanted to be around me when I didn’t have free alcohol in my hands. My mistake.”

 

Jensen’s so stunned his mind goes blank, jaw clenched around a couple words he doesn’t think he wants to hear.

 

This is not going well. And this is definitely not heading towards sex. This isn’t even the kind of pissed off that can be used in angry sex, not with Jensen’s stomach rolling the way it is. And Jared claims to need there to be sex (even if Jensen’s not giving it to him), so Jensen swallows a bitter lump and asks as politely as he can, “So, Jared. What is it that makes this job so necessary that you’d agree to have sex against your orientation in order to keep it?”

 

Any one of the girls would’ve given him the eyebrow for his phrasing, but Jared doesn’t even blink. He does turn a little red and look away, miserable huff of air slipping between his lips.

 

“I’m not doing this if you don’t tell me why,” Jensen growls a little more forcibly, but what he doesn’t let show on his face is that he’s not promising anything either way. It’s playing dirty, but hello, he’s a hooker, they’re not known for being truth fairies.

 

He doesn’t actually expect there to be a reason, let alone a good one. Definitely not one that makes Jared turn white.

 

“I…” Jared’s eyes close, like he can’t watch himself say the words, like it’s physically hurting him to hold them in his ribs. “I’m putting myself through college, okay? I’m studying full time and working here, and no one…no one knows how bad it is. Not my parents, not my best friend—I had to steal toilet paper rolls out of the campus bathrooms and last week I gave in and went to a fucking soup kitchen because I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast the day before. I…It’s not that I didn’t want to invite you out.” The last part is so quiet it scrapes something loose. 

 

Jensen opens his mouth—probably to blurt something like, “Fuck, _Jared_.”—but something sticks in his throat, stalling him enough for Jared to add, “You said—we aren’t more than barstool buddies, right? So can we just… Can we just do this?”

 

They aren’t, though. They’re more, they could be, and Christ, why the hell did Jensen say they weren’t? Some misguided attempt at making this easier? Because now, now it—

 

“…And you want to be topped?” is what Jensen says when his throat clears, and Jared looks so surprised it’s almost enough to keep the mental pictures out of his head. Jesus. His stomach flips over.

 

“I just, uh.” Jared turns even redder, pink flush that Jensen is going to know very soon if it goes everywhere. “I just want to have options? I don’t know, man, just do what you do.”

 

 _I do what people want me to do_ , Jensen thinks, eyes roaming over Jared looking for a sign, some big bright neon thing that says I Like Rimming or I Give Great Head Ask Me How and coming up empty. _I don’t even think you want to_ be _here with me._ It hurts a little, and it shouldn’t. He’s just never slept with someone who doesn’t want him to. Which—great—sounds like _rape._

 

And then Jared’s kissing him.

 

Jensen definitely did not make the first move, here. He is damn sure his feet are still planted the exact moment they were before the kissing and the hands holding his face and tilting it up, thumbs catching just on the edge of his jaw, he’s _sure._ But he just went from ‘rape’ to ‘yeah okay sure why not hell _fucking_ yes’ and his brain isn’t entirely functioning. 

 

He’s going to. Fuck.

 

Jared needs him to.

 

Jensen’s been kissed plenty over the years, and this? This is a _good kiss_. This is a curl-your-fingers-in-his-shirt-and-hold-on kiss, an ear-ringing kiss, and it’s been a while since he’s has either of those.

 

He doesn’t kiss back. Even though he’s practically shaking fighting the urge to give in to muscle memory, Jensen keeps still except for a few basic moves. If he grabbed Jared the way he wants to, the meltdown would be—

 

“Fuck, I’m sorry—rules, I know there’s got to be—but I can still hear you _thinking_ ,” Jared says, pulling back to _headbutt_ him. Lightly, but _still_. Jensen’s mouth falls open, just in time for Jared to swoop in again.

 

Jensen grits his teeth (not literally, there’s a tongue in there) and puts his foot down, which comes out in a growl and grabbing the back of Jared’s head to just hold him still, Jesus, so Jensen can think. Jared tastes warm and wet and like Jared, this big happy glowing thing that’s always been the highlight of his day and he’s just—he makes Jensen feel small but in this good, safe way that he’s never—

 

“Okay,” Jensen says, breaking away with a slick sound that seems pornographic even to him. His mouth felt raw before Jared showed up at his door, and now he can’t seem to look anywhere else. That at least is a familiar response of people invited upstairs. “Okay. How was that?”

 

Jared blinks. “You didn’t do much.”

 

“I meant kissing a guy,” Jensen clarifies in what he knows is his working voice, because the instant the words come out Jared’s frowning, hard. Jensen clears his throat and tries again. “Scale of one to ten, how badly are you freaking out?”

 

“Oh.” Jared’s gaze instantly skates away. Jensen’s backbone hardens, even if it’s in defense.

 

“This next part, it’s gonna be a lot harder to pretend that I’m a chick,” he promises, and strips out of his shirt.

 

Jared makes a quiet, strangled noise that sounds like maybe it was supposed to be a denial, then sinks back a little against the door with a hand scrubbing over his mouth, limbs shaking just enough to be visible. Jensen instantly tenses, ready to back off, when his gaze slides lower.

 

Jared is hard. At least half way, if the pup tent isn’t lying, which it isn’t. Jensen knows when pup tents lie. And this? This is less like a pup and more like a Great Dane and what the _fuck_ is Jensen thinking about dogs for?

 

“That isn’t exactly bad news,” Jensen offers quietly, shaking his head to get rid of the thought as he eases forward. “Come on, think how awkward it would’ve been if we had to do this and you couldn’t get it up?”

 

“Fuck. You,” Jared growls around his hand, because Jensen hadn’t stayed too serious in that last sentence.

 

Now, though, he just steps closer, presses the front of his jean-clad thighs against Jared’s and tries not to thrill too hard at the sensation. “It’s an option.”

 

Jared shivers, and Jensen knows exactly where to stand for them both to feel it best. “Fuck.”

 

“Either way,” Jensen shrugs, game face making him smirk.

 

“Which way do you like it?” Jared asks, soft and pointed, narrowed eyes and something in his tone sending up a flare of annoyance as Jensen’s mask slips again.

 

“I like whatever you like, baby.” But the words are grit out; Jared’s shaking his head before they’re even said.

 

“And fuck, don’t call me baby,” Jared mutters, like there was a first part. “Seriously, Jen, can you just—pick a way? I’m obviously up for anything,” he adds with a gesture towards his dick.

 

Jensen wants to call him on the nickname, he really does, but he also doesn’t have a fucking clue what to say, here. He really is flexible on this and Jared isn’t sending any fucking _signals_ —

 

Oh, god damn it all to hell. “I want you to fuck me.”

 

Jared’s eyes fly wide. “Seriously?”

 

“Yeah.” He has reasons, they’re even good ones—the last thing someone needs the morning after a gay freak-out is the feeling of a phantom cock up their ass from being the bottom beast with two backs (yes, he knows every euphemism for fucking, even the Shakespearean ones). What he’s not admitting to anyone, least of all himself, is just how much he wants to be that bottom beast with Jared.

 

It’s just sex, though. He’s always appreciated people for their ability to make him feel good.

 

And then Jared _smiles,_ god _damnit,_ all nerves and trust and dimples, and Jensen has to kiss him before he gets a cavity. It’s just not fair what Jared does to him, turning him upside down and sideways shaking him, so if his kiss is harder this time it’s just because he’s frustrated and not trying to climb into Jared’s lap standing up. The noises Jared swallows keep flooding Jensen’s system anyway until Jensen pulls a Milo and starts cursing into Jared’s mouth.

 

It’s how he learns tricks, okay? From clients. Mostly he learns what not to do, but occasionally something sticks. Milo couldn’t hardly shut his mouth for all the filth pouring out of it from the second that door snapped shut. And he’s not thinking about Milo now, not with Jared’s ribcage under his hands, palming the fluttering expanse of him beneath his shirt, except—

 

Except—fuck, Milo. Client. Jared. He’s not treating Jared like a—and he has to.

 

He bites back another curse and pulls back and then away, Jared caught too off-guard to do anything until Jensen’s too far away to grab.

 

“What—?” Jared starts.

 

“I, uh.” Jensen jerks his thumb in the direction of the bathroom, eyes anywhere else. “I have to slick up.” He prepped at the beginning of the night, but it’s been all blow jobs since then and Jared…Jared is not small. “So I’m gonna do that, and you…stay here.”

 

“What?” Jared says again, suddenly on his feet and unsupported by the door. “That’s not— Isn’t that part of it? Don’t I help you out with that?”

 

It is indescribably hard to decipher Jared’s expression. He should be…He _shouldn’t_ be—the way he’s looking. “How do you know anything about gay sex?” Jensen snaps with not half the force he wanted to it.

 

“I have a douchebag for a best friend,” Jared shoots back, snark marring the defensiveness but not obliterating it.

 

“Yeah, well, you don’t. Help. I mean, they can, the clients, but you don’t have to.” He shouldn’t be talking like this. He has _lines_ , real and actual words to use, and it pisses him off that he can’t for the life of him make his mouth work right. “I’m trying to minimize the damage, here, okay? So just—”

 

“Jensen.” Suddenly Jared is right there, still buzzing with nerves and adrenaline and _right there_ , in Jensen’s space without crowding him and really stupidly tall. “Come on. If the clients get to, sometimes, then—” He cuts himself off and swallows the thought, eyes on Jensen’s collarbone when they open again. “I want to. Okay, I—Please?”

 

“You do not!” Jensen cries, last of his patience gone for this whole stupid mess with That Word. “ _Fuck_ Sam, this is blackmail and extortion and—you don’t have to do this! I have some crazy weird pull with her. I’ll get her to back the fuck off!”

 

Jared’s hands come down a little too hard on his arms, something Jensen wouldn’t have tolerated from a client but just feels…kind of okay, because Jared’s hair is in his eyes and Jared’s eyes are closed but his mouth is open like he’s breathing Jensen in. “Obviously,” he says, letting his forehead fall against Jensen’s again, “Obviously, I want it.”

 

“Anyone can get hard with the right about of physical stimuli,” Jensen rattles off, something he probably heard in a sex-ed class. Talk about an investment in the future.  

 

“No,” Jared growls, hitting their heads together like Jensen needs it physically knocked into his brain. “Jensen. I am telling you. I want it. It’s okay.” Then Jared’s mouth is back on his, and any annoyance that of the people in the room Jensen is not the one who should be comforted rushes out with the ringing in his ears.

 

Jensen is not usually so big on making out, doesn’t usually wrap himself up in a person—a client—like this, and. Jared’s just so good at it. He uses his hands when he kisses, hesitant touches everywhere that feel like the exact opposite of groping, and of course they do; Jared’s here for a job and so—so the fuck is Jensen.

 

He breaks the kiss just a little bit to get his head back in the game, back in an instant, probably fast enough that Jared just thinks he needed air. He does, but that isn’t—important. Then he runs his own hands deliberately down Jared’s back, fingertips brushing over the curve of his spine—and Christ, there’s just so much of him to touch—and then a little lighter over his ass, ready to break away at the first sign of Jared panicking. But this—he doesn’t even go still, his hips rock forward like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

 

 _God, Jared, could you be a little less tempting?_

 

Fuck it. _Fuck me_ , the little tumor voice corrects but Jensen’s shoving Jared on the bed and it’s not hard to ignore it with Jared sprawled across his purple silk sheets. (For a brief, fleeting moment Jensen wishes they were navy cotton, but that thought is shoved aside before he can think why.)

 

“I’m going to undress you,” is what he says, in a voice that promises _and you’re going to like it_ but also, he hopes, _stop me if it’s too much_.

 

Jared doesn’t rolls his eyes, but it’s close. “I’m not a—”

 

“This is part of it,” Jensen stays just a little too fast, gulping against the realization that he’s going to want to use that excuse again, soon, as he straddles Jared’s hips. God, he _loves_ the press of his inner thighs along each side of Jared’s ribs, like he’s holding him together and in place all at once. He leans forward, bites the words against Jared’s collarbone so he won’t have to watch that feeling mirrored on his face. “Never had someone strip you before?”

 

Jared’s breath rushes out him when Jensen tugs his shirt collar and lets his teeth sink down just hard enough they won’t leave a mark. They never negotiated marks. “Maybe I’m all talk,” he mutters, then arches up when Jensen does it again. “Shit. Got me into this in the first place. Jesus, Jensen…”

 

Jensen shuts up because he doesn’t know what to say, eases back onto his haunches and guides Jared’s shirt up the flat, broad expanse of his chest. He left the buttons undone tonight, and now that he’s up close Jensen can see it’s because some of them are missing. Like maybe once upon a time someone ripped this shirt off him. Or maybe this was cheaper at a Salvation Army. Fuck.

 

“My dogs like eating buttons,” Jared says with a high blush that just about melts Jensen right there.

 

“You have dogs?” he says instead, fighting back a stupid grin that wants to irrationally cheer _Barstool buddies? Fuck that,_ while another part of him is turning red screaming, _Unprofessional._

 

“Not…really. I can’t afford to feed them, so they’re living with my parents.” Jared lifts his shoulders and shrugs right out of the clothes Jensen’s pulling from him. “I just…tell them—ah!—that I, that the apartment I’m in doesn’t—Jensen…”

 

Jensen lifts his tongue from where it was playing with the fine hairs leading to Jared’s bellybutton and tries to look innocent about it. “I’m listening.”

 

“Why the hell are you letting me talk?” Jared asks, almost a whine.

 

“It’s what you’re good at.” Jensen licks a long wet stripe along the edge of his jeans and has to fight the sudden urge to tremble. “Said so yourself.”

 

One of Jared’s huge hands brushes along the exposed skin of Jensen’s shoulder, and Jensen’s eyes fall shut without his permission because looking at Jared makes him feel all hopelessly protective and warm. “You…you want me to talk to you?”

 

Jensen thinks strongly _This isn’t about what I want_ and then the way he felt when Jared was talking to Mark floods his mind, the way his skin felt too tight, and he can’t say no, he doesn’t, so he says, “Fuck, yeah, Jared, please.”

 

The please scares him, makes Jared swallow a moan, and Jensen tongues at the button in his jeans hoping the sharp metallic tang will shake him out of it whatever’s shaking him up now. He’s never…He’s never really decided what is and isn’t a kink for him because it depends so much on who’s doing it, but Jared. Fuck. Jensen’s pretty much sure that he could listen to Jared read the phone book and get off, and he’s not sure when that happened.

 

“God, I don’t—”

 

Jensen makes himself go slow with the zipper, the button, working his fingertips under the edge of his jeans to make Jared’s breath hitch. It’s stupid, fuck, he just asked Jared to talk but now he’s scared to hear it.

 

“You gonna suck me?”

 

Jensen’s eyes snap up to Jared’s and his breathing doesn’t falter so much as stop completely. And that, right there, is what he’s scared of. Jared’s too good at this, because he’s _sincere_. He really doesn’t know the answer.

 

“God, I have spent—so much time talking about your mouth—” He breaks off, voice a little higher than he probably means to, worrying his bottom lip. “Probably…probably longer thinking about it…”

 

 _Makes sense_ , part of Jensen squeaks, panicky, _You have to think about what you’re going to say, practice,_ before a more cynical voice rumbles, _Oh, great, another straight boy using you to experiment with his sexuality._  

 

The rest of him goes warm all over, like he’s being painted with it. He can pretend. He can pretend his way through anything—he can let himself think for an hour that Jared means it more than he does.

 

“Yeah?” Jensen asks, his voice dropping low and rough as he eases Jared’s jeans over his hips and thighs, thumbs hooked in the belt loops so the rest of his fingers get to play. Leaning over to breathe the words against the shape of Jared straining against his boxer-briefs is almost too good, tip of his cock staining the grey fabric dark. “What do you tell them about my mouth?”

 

“Tell them—god, Jensen, just—”

 

“No.” When Jensen shakes his head the tip of his nose catches just under the head of Jared’s dick, and Jensen’s senses are flooded with the smell of him like he’s already in his mouth. Jared jerks under Jensen’s hands. “Tell me.” It sounds like begging, and Jensen tells himself it was supposed to.

 

“I—” Jared’s throat is still working so Jensen counts it as a win, palms sliding greedily down Jared’s hips as his wrists carry the elastic down, and he gets his first look at Jared’s dick, beautiful, fucking…just _pretty_ , all red and slick with precome and huge, big, hot and dripping between the cut lines of Jared’s hips and the flat expanse of his belly.

 

“I tell them…that you’re good at this.” Jared’s skin is flushed down his chest, light pink around the hard peaks of his nipples. “That—that the whole coming hard enough to see stars isn’t… That the way you use your lips is illegal in ten states and…”

 

Jensen bites back on the urge to tease him and demand full sentences, holding onto that instead of giving in to the full body shiver that wants to race down his spine when he gets that first taste, just a quick lap across the tip to gather those pearly drops of semen on his tongue. And _fuck, yeah_ , if only everyone tasted like Jared. He could be the 32nd flavor at Baskin Robbins.

 

“God, you are too good at this,” Jared pants as Jensen breathes hot and moist down his shaft.

 

Jensen just hums—a _you aint seen nothing yet_ sound _—_ and swallows him down.

 

“ _Fuck_!” Jared’s huge and not easy to gulp down, but feeling him tremble under and _in_ , fuck, _inside_ Jensen makes something open in his throat to take him deeper. He’s full, _uhn_ , so full that he can barely move his tongue but he does, works at the vein on the underside with short, rough pulls, the only way he can manage because Jared’s filling everything else up, and _god_ when this monster really is inside him it’s going to split him in two.

 

Jared feels like he’s shaking apart under his hands, and Jensen flicks a glance up just to check on him but stays, Christ, he can’t look anywhere else. He was expecting Jared’s eyes squeezed shut, playing out some female fantasy, not locked on the spot where his dick is sliding past Jensen’s lips.

 

He barely gets in a half dozen bobs before Jared’s tugging at his head, his shoulders—and once, his jaw, which does interesting things to them both, the feel of Jared’s thumb pressing against himself through the stretch of Jensen’s cheek—hard enough that Jensen has to pull off even though he’d more than willingly choke himself on more, until Jared was filling his throat up with so much come it’d dribble down his swollen lips, his chin, and even then the best part would be Jared’s face when he licked himself clean.

 

“That’s not sex,” Jared pants, voice wrecked like he’s the one with his neck still burning from deepthroating, a visual that Jensen does not need.

 

“Who are you, Bill Clinton?” is what he wants to ask, but his own throat hasn’t quite finished swallowing the globs of precome Jared left on his tongue before Jared’s hand catches at the back of his neck, just resting there instead of pulling him closer, and that’s somehow more intimate than if they were kissing. Jensen shivers all over, can’t help it, and Jared’s eyes turn dark so fast it’s like watching paper burn.

 

“I’ve had blowjobs before.”

 

Right. This whole thing is—Jensen didn’t really forget.

 

He wants Jared to undress him, guide his wrists and let Jared’s hands pull the too-tight fabric off his body, but he wants to be naked more and strips efficiently, muscles stretching in anticipation as he moves and pretends Jared’s not staring. It’s even working out until Jared’s hand lands broad and warm on Jensen’s side, and Jensen can barely breathe for the shockwave of heat that races through him. Jared’s close, breathing close, almost nuzzling Jensen and almost curled against his side, _asking_ for something if Jensen could just figure out what it is—but then Jared leans forward and takes with a soft noise he’s probably unaware of, pressing his tongue against Jensen’s, and Jensen gives in with a groan that tears lower than his chest.

 

He’s eating the taste of himself from Jensen’s mouth, determination fading into desperation as he finds out he likes it. _Jesus Motherfucking Christ._

 

“Fuck. Jensen.”

 

Fuck Jensen. Yes. Sounds like a plan.

 

Jensen rolls over and away from Jared, pulls open the obvious drawer on the bedside table where the lube and condoms are and fishes out one of each—vanilla flavored but unscented lube, standard but extra large condom—and rolls again onto his back, spreading his legs as Jared unconsciously rubs circles on the soft skin between his ribs and hip. “You wanted to watch?” he reminds Jared, eyelashes lowered but not shut, doesn’t think he could if it meant he had to stop watching Jared’s face.

 

“I wanted to _do_ ,” Jared corrects, but he doesn’t sound nearly as certain as Jensen needs him to be, still shook up, tongue heavy with his own taste.

 

Jensen shoves the words aside and concentrates on putting on a show, biting his abused bottom lip as he gets his fingers slick, maybe a little too much, lube coiling down his wrist to drip on his stomach, one drop catching the tip of Jared’s ring finger. It’s a little bit harder to do this on a bed than standing, but the pillows at his back prop him up, and the way Jared’s staring at him make his legs fall just a little bit further apart. Which brings his attention to what’s straining between them.

 

He is rock. Fucking. Hard. Jensen has no idea how he ignored it before because it’s throbbing heavy against his stomach, precome pooling from the slit of his cock to the slit of his belly button, and even the weight of Jared’s gaze makes him pulse like Jared’s rolling a relentless hand over his erection instead. His eyes fall shut, hips rutting up into nothing. He can’t—there must’ve—he’s been this hard before, it’s just been a long fucking while, too long to remember when, exactly.

 

Jensen’s barely got his slick fingers warmed when Jared catches them, the rough pads of his fingertips skidding along Jensen’s in a barely-there touch that makes Jensen gasp before he can help himself. The next second Jared’s tongue swipes over those fingers, licking up the flavor of what Jensen’s about to taste like.

 

“Sweet,” Jared says, and for one terrifying moment the only thing Jensen can think of is _soup kitchen hadn’t eaten since breakfast_ before his mind supplies all sorts of ways Jensen could feed him. He doesn’t think about why he wanted unscented, why he wanted to smell the two of them together, because that’s just. It doesn’t matter.

 

“Yeah…” comes out in a breathy moan, just a little too hoarse. He lets his fingers tease his entrance and lets himself enjoy it, tug and circle and push just the tips inside because Jared is watching, staring like he can’t look anywhere else, and when he reaches out to touch Jensen drags in a shuddering gasp. It’s not _there_ , his touch lands shy and on the sensitive skin of his inner thigh and Jared, fuck, Jensen kind of misses Jared’s solid heat against his side but he can’t really say _no, what are you doing down there?_ because that’s where Jensen _needs_ him.

 

“This looks uncomfortable,” Jared murmurs, sliding one hand over the curve of Jensen’s contorted back as Jensen reaches behind his cock and finally slips the first finger in, easy and still stretched from earlier. Jensen still gasps and Jared’s moving closer like he can’t help himself, kneecaps brushing the outside of Jensen’s hips. “Seriously,” he whispers, looking mesmerized by the sight of Jensen finger disappearing inside him, “Seriously, Jensen, let me—can I?”

 

Jensen’s nodding before he can remember why not, breath punched out of him as he lets go, falls against the pillows and Jared’s hand and does not care why he ever thought this was a bad idea.

 

But then when Jared lunges across his body for the bottle of lube his cock inadvertently rubs _all over_ Jensen’s, so _fucking_ good and hot and that’s Jared’s spunk in a scorching wet line up Jensen’s shaft and he shudders all over, feels like he’s shaking out of his skin and so close to the edge he nearly bites through his lip dragging back from it.

 

“Bad plan,” Jensen grits out against Jared’s collarbone, fighting through a pleasure fog to realize he’s clutching tight to Jared’s biceps to keep him there long enough to calm down.

 

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Jared’s eyes are shut, mouth open, tremors racing across his skin. “I don’t know how you do this.” Breathy, desperate. “If it’s this intense, how do you—”

 

Jensen’s not above kissing him to shut him up and proves it, wrapping the hand not still preoccupied with his ass in Jared’s hair to pull him down. He’s just got one fingertip inside, now, stretched empty and he gasps against Jared’s lips when one long finger slides against his own and in, god, barely any hesitation until he’s all the way inside. It’s a delicious burn against the lingering slick and Jensen grinds his hips down as Jared fumbles with the lube without breaking the kiss, spilling some on his hand so the next slide in is easy and a little cold, muscles tightening around the intrusion in involuntary flutters.

 

“More.” Growl, bitten into Jared’s kiss as he humps down against the touch, up against Jared’s cock and belly, fuck, they never really moved apart. “Christ, Jared, _more._ ”

 

The second finger comes even quicker than the first, crooking and rubbing and Jared—it hits Jensen all over how big he is, how fucking good he is at fingering and thinks, knows, _he does this for his girls, opens them up, probably licks them loose and wet before_ and _fuck,_ fuck. When the third finger comes it’s all Jensen can do to hold on, bury his face in the crook of Jared’s neck and breathe, breathe, breathe.

 

It takes a while to realize that mantra’s not only inside his head; Jared’s murmuring the words against the side of his head and it seems ridiculous that they could be so locked together without being inside each other too. It’s almost as ridiculous as Jensen needing someone to tell him to relax and take it. Jensen traps the air inside his chest and grinds down again, trying not to mewl.

 

“Good?” Jared asks, curling his fingers, and his eyebrows do this thing that makes him look all of eighteen. “You like this?” There’s an emphasis on _you_ that twists something in Jensen like a red hot wire.

 

“Yeah, yeah.” God he does, right now. Sometimes he doesn’t, but Jared—

 

One of his hands tears free from Jared long enough to grasp at the condom poking his hip, presses the plastic packet against Jared’s chest like a brand and can’t do much more than that, can’t make his brain speak words. Jared makes a noise that sounds like Jensen’s name and disentangles as much as Jensen will let him to tear it open with his teeth, shake out the latex circle with his free hand. Jensen wants to show him how to put it on with his mouth, but when the idea is enough to short circuit his brain, he kind of has to abandon it.

 

“Anything I should know here?” Christ, what _language_ is he speaking? _Dick meet hole_ , and Jensen tries to tell him with his brain but it’s not working. “Jen, Jen, talk to me.”

 

The fat head of Jared’s cock presses against tight ring of muscle and backs off without slipping in, like a kiss or a lick, and he has got to be joking. Jensen growls, air rushing raw through his throat and he locks an ankle in the small of Jared’s back and tugs. It gets him _absofucking nowhere_ , Jared’s arms bracing hard on either side of his head and Jared’s teeth bare in a flash Jensen almost misses when Jared’s tip taps him latex-slick again.

 

“ _Jensen.”_

 

All the air in him slides out of his lungs, last of it curling into a breathless noise he’s not proud of, but Jesus fuck, that—if Jensen wasn’t already belly up he’d roll over, and as it is he kind of wants to flip and offer up his ass with a whine. He just wants something to happen, god, anything, because when this gets started it’s—

 

“Just—” He’s got thousands of lines, and maybe staying silent wasn’t because he couldn’t talk. Jared’s got some insane sort of radar for insincerity, and he’d _know_. He’d know that Jensen meant every single word if he begged to be used, taken, fucked raw and hard and put up wet. He drags in what’s supposed to be his sanity, doesn’t answer until he’s got a thin sheen of his professional control back on top of the sweat slicking his body. He’s not a horny teenager, he’s not going to literally die if Jared doesn’t fuck him, it’s okay.

 

It doesn’t come out sounding that way, strange babble of words that don’t make sense. “Jared, Jay come on man slide in slide out just—in, inside, c’mon Jared _please_.”

 

“Fuck.” Something in Jared breaks, shoulders bending like barbed wire pulled tight and cut as he moves closer to Jensen, so close he can’t get air that doesn’t smell like Jared. “’M gonna, Jen, I’m going to just—” Hard slow press of his mouth against Jensen’s and he holds on, tells himself that it’s because Jared has something to prove and not because he—

 

He slides in. Pushes in. Stretches and fills and burns a glide over that spot inside that makes Jensen quake and all of his senses light up. He can hear and feel and taste Jared’s panting breaths and his spine arches before he knows what he’s doing, stammered cry caught thick in his throat with the last of Jared’s precome. He knows, and Jared has to know, but he’s seriously this close to exploding in a white hot mess all over his belly and he has no idea how to stop it.

 

Jared’s hips hitch that last inch and then he’s in, all the way. The noise Jared makes turns Jensen inside out so fast he blinks, and suddenly it’s easy. Easy to focus on Jared, smooth the sweat-dark hair from eyes he’s never looked at this close, pupils huge against a sunflower blue sky—the words in his head don’t make sense but it doesn’t matter because Jensen can still wrap everything around Jared and hold on.

 

Slide his flanks sweet against Jared’s hips, grip tight and buck up.

 

Jared’s eyes snap shut and Jensen thinks _fuck_ , tries to wrangle it so his cock doesn’t rut all over Jared’s abs every time they move but Jared’s hands slam down on his arms, pinning him in place. For a moment neither of them breathes, then something almost too quiet to be a laugh shakes out of Jared’s throat. “Don’t move.”

 

Jensen’s never gotten off on being held down before, either because it’s implausible or the hulks who can make him believe it also make him queasy. This doesn’t feel _anything_ like that. Jared’s still asking, even as he drags his cock all over Jensen’s insides pulling out, unraveling him slow and sweet and shoving him back together. The first time it happens Jensen isn’t quick enough to swallow a cry, and by the third thrust he has to close his eyes, every “ _uhn uhh uhn”_ punched out of him and feather light against Jared’s neck. He tries not to sound so guttural, deep, masculine; Jared’s got to have enough to deal with.

 

But then one of Jared’s huge hands wraps around the shaft of his dick, palming his balls and gliding all the way up to rub a thumb over his head and Jensen shatters.

 

 _that the whole coming hard enough to see stars isn’t_ rings through Jensen’s head as his eyes snap wide and sightless, every muscle yanking tight and then releasing in this huge pulse that splits him open and shakes him back into shape as his hips buck up and fuck down, huge fat spurts of come tearing out of someplace low and molten hot, wet slick all over his chest, Jared’s hand. Jensen feels broken open, upside down, uncontrollable spasms wringing everything and more out of him. He has never seen so much come ever from one orgasm, didn’t think it was physically possible. It’s all the way up to his throat, for fuck’s sake, and every spurt that hits his skin jerks another pulse from him.

 

“Jesus _Christ_ , _Jensen_ ,” Jared chokes, head dropping down on Jensen’s collarbone as he shoves past Jensen’s clenching muscles, and his bangs are painting circles in the come he shot that high. Then Jared snaps taught, this huge massive force of nature slammed into a shuddering standstill. There’s this tight stretch of pressure as Jared fills the condom, and it tugs another shuddering spurt from Jensen’s spent cock. Jared comes like the world’s finally falling off his shoulders.

 

Jensen wants… He’s not sure what he has a right to want at this moment, but he keeps his hand tangled in Jared’s hair and breathes him in until he’s ready to move.

 

Instead Jared licks him, slow lazy stretch of his tongue across Jensen’s skin, muscles fitting back together under Jensen’s other hand and he gets to taste Jensen too. Jensen, who suddenly can’t do anything but let go like he’s being burned.

 

Jared pulls off with his fingers on the condom like a good kid, eyes half lidded and moving slower than he has to, like he’s scared of hurting him after everything they did.

 

“I—thanks,” Jared says, voice a little rough and his gaze focused on getting his jeans zipped.

 

Jensen wants to ask if he’s okay, but all he can do is swallow thickly and nod.

 

“I—” Jared starts again, then fishes out his billfold and pulls out a fifty. Jensen’s stomach jerks into his mouth, yanks at his liquefied spine until he’s up on one hand.

 

“Jared,” he blurts, “Don’t.”

 

“I know people tip you,” Jared says, sharp twist of his mouth like Jensen thinks he’s stupid. Or can’t afford it. Like fifty bucks means anything to a hooker getting paid in thousands and _doesn’t_ mean food for a week.

 

At least he doesn’t throw it on the bed when he leaves, just lays it next to Jensen’s calf and walks out.

 

Jared’s gone before it hits Jensen, how much he did without…without knowing anything, without a blood test at the door, without _rules_.

~*~

Jared runs on autopilot all the way home, sleeps like the dead, and goes to class the same way. Chad texts him half-way through letting him know he’s not coming in, _< bitch of a hangovr,  >_ and Jared thinks about all the liquor he’d like to drink but can’t afford, and the way it’s going to be spilling through his hands tonight at work.

 

He still has a job, though, thanks to Jensen. He’s not going to need to sell a kidney to pay for gas, thanks to Jensen. And he can keep thanking him as long as it doesn’t have to be out loud.

 

It’s not like he needs his internal organs.

 

Jared’s having a big gay freak out, if he’s being honest with himself. Which he’s not, but. You know. If he was.

 

As far as big gay freak outs go, he wishes he could dredge up some fucking surprise about it. He doesn’t feel that particular emotion until Chris is picking up his first Arrogant Bastard Ale of the night and casually dropping, “Jensen’s not on the floor tonight. Don’t go pimping his ass, someone’s using it,” before he turns to leave.

 

“Hey,” Jared blurts before he can help himself. “He’s…okay, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Chris says like there’s never been a person alive with more shit for brains. “Jesus. He’s not some soggy flower… _pony_. You ain’t the first straight boy he’s fucked.”

 

The glass Jared was polishing hits the ground and shatters, but it’s not anything profound. It just slipped from his grasp.

 

When he’s done picking up the pieces there’s a fifty dollar bill in his tip jar.

 

The girls stop talking to him except to order drinks, but it takes him just under an hour to realize, so it might not be their fault. Except that Misha hasn’t come near the bar all night, and Mike won’t even meet his gaze. The whole floor is brightly tense, laughs just a little too loud, painted smiles tight. The patrons don’t have a fucking clue what’s going on, but with every employee in the place sending out _don’t fuck with me_ vibes the girls get them off the floor quicker.

 

Jared puts on his own tight smile when he thinks about going to Sam, pitching a fit, saying “If this is how it’s going to be…” Because he knows he’s not leaving until they kick him out on his ass. His sense of pride is pretty much shot with how badly he needs that fifty.

 

“Beer, motherfucker.”

 

He doesn’t even raise his head to give the asshole a look, just to ask him what kind. And then his brain stops.

 

“Chad.”

 

“ _Yo,_ ” Chad says the way some people say ‘ _fuck_ you.’ “Long time no fucking chitchat, _douchebag_.”

 

“I—I texted you this morning!” He’s so flustered his thumbs pantomime it.

 

“No, I texted _you_ this morning, and I never got so much as a semicolon parenthesis back. And go blow your wad of surprise on someone else’s face, fudgepacker—‘death I think is no.’ I’m a fucking _English Major._ ”

 

Jared swallows, trying his damnedest to wipe the shock off his face. “Codependent much?” is what he says, and Chad lunges across the bar to grab his shirt and drag him closer just so he can smack him upside the head. “OW!”

 

“You need money, you fucking tell me before you turn ass up for the first guy with ten bucks!” Chad thinks about it for a split second, then hits him again. “Assmunch!”

 

“ _Ow!_ Jesus, I wasn’t—” And then Chad is literally dragging him over the bar. _Literally._ Dragging him over. None of this ‘around’ bullshit, Chad has a fistful of his last good shirt and Jared knocks over three martinis and hits a tap with his elbow when his belly hits the bar top.

 

“ _Chad_ ,” he yells the instant his feet are under him, well into his face with his teeth bared and a dark flush burning his face because every single eye in the place is turned their way. If they hadn’t been best friends since they were toddlers it might’ve even worked.

 

“I talked to Milo!”

 

“… _Who_?”

 

Chad scoffs with his entire being. “You don’t even know his _name_.”

 

“Whose name? _Chad_ ,” Jared tries again, yanking back this time when Chad pulls and forcing his voice into something urgent enough Chad might listen. Chris is prowling closer through the crowds and Jared’s pretty sure he saw Aldis run for Sam’s office the instant Chad started yelling. “Seriously. Dude. Calm the fuck down.”

 

“Calm the fuck down? My best dickwad of a friend in the whole motherfucking world is whoring himself out like a common slut and you want me to calm the fuck down?”

 

Several of the girls’ lips curl. One even recoils. Danny looks like she’s about to kill someone with her umbrella drink, and Jensen is standing with Aldis at the stairs.

 

“Chad.” Jared makes his eyes close, then focus on this instead of the feeling of every bone in his body crushing. “I don’t know who this Milo guy is, but did he tell you I work at the Ranch?”

 

“Yes, and—”

 

“As a bartender?”

 

“I—” Chad stops. Maybe for the first time realizes where Jared was standing when he came in. “…Ohh.”

 

“Yeah.” Jared can feel where Jensen is, knows with crystal clear memory from one glimpse that he’s in comfortable jeans and a loose t-shirt, fresh from a shower and whatever appointment was keeping him upstairs. What he can’t make himself decipher was the expression on his face.

 

“So…” Chad drawls, just as Kane reaches them. “Good or bad time to talk about employee discounts?”

 

~*~

 

Jensen watches Chris haul Jared’s squinty friend ass backwards out of the bar, even as the idiot throws winks and kisses and a, “Hey, you aint so common, baby,” at every scowling prostitute they pass. They start cooing at their marks harder than ever the instant that door shuts, and for a second the bar is so loud and fake it makes Jensen’s skin itch.

 

Not that that’s much different than what it was before. He’s been jittery and sick with it since he pulled himself off the bed last night to shower, and part of him wants to hate Jared for it.

 

Jared looks…stripped. Hands still curled like he had the last of something taken from him and he’s still used to holding it. Jensen would hazard a guess that something isn’t this ‘Chad.’

 

Aldis catches him before he goes too far, just a light touch on his elbow. “Jen, man…” is what he says, but he means _Seriously, worth it?_ Jared turns his back on the bristling crowd to get a mop and broom for the drinks he spilled, and Jensen thinks—well, he doesn’t really let himself think, but if he did it’d be _Yes._

 

“Hey,” Jensen says. Jared doesn’t flinch, but Jensen watches his throat work while he finds whatever he needs to meet Jensen’s gaze. Sort of Jensen’s gaze, his own is a little unfocused, detached. “Can I talk with you for a sec?”

 

“About?” Jared asks quietly like Jensen can’t see he thinks he doesn’t have much choice.

 

“Just…” Jensen tips his head towards the storage room behind the bar. “Real quick.”

 

“Jensen, I can’t.” Jared’s hands twitch towards the glass scattered across the floor. “People could get hurt.”

 

Jensen communes fast and silent with Aldis, who claps a sudden hand on Jared’s shoulder with a loud, “Hey, man, don’t worry about it, I got this one.” Danneel is one of the closest working girls, sends them all a sideways look, and Jensen’s hand is on Jared’s arm pulling him away from that before he can think why.

 

“So I have this job for you,” Jensen murmurs the instant the door closes, then takes a second to breathe in the smell of rough oak wood and sweet amaretto that Phil spilled in the corner while Jared blinks and wraps his head around the words. It’s a little bit easier to be inside his own skin in here, or at least fit behind one of his masks.

 

Until he actually makes eye contact with Jared, and his skin starts burning everywhere Jared touched last night.

 

“I have a job,” Jared says finally, like there’s not enough air in his lungs. “If Sam doesn’t fire me—”

 

“She’s not— She won’t,” Jensen promises, firm, makes sure his eyes stay locked on Jared’s so he knows he means it. He doesn’t mean them to stay as long as they do.

 

Jared’s the first to look elsewhere, Jensen blinking away whatever made his lungs seize up with the memory of—doesn’t matter. He’s still got his hand on Jared, sweating a little in the confines of the store room even though it’s a good ten degrees cooler in here than outside, so he drops it and tries not to be obvious when he rubs it dry.

 

“So this is like…an additional job.” There’s a wry twist of Jared’s lips Jensen wishes he hadn’t seen. “In my free time.” He’s got his shoulders set against a crate of scotch, heel of one boot on the first low shelf, and he’s all long lines that Jensen’s body has been trained to react to.

 

“Whenever free time happens,” Jensen stresses, shoving those urges back to the place with too-small clothing and eyeliner. “Seriously, you’ve never known flexible hours like these.”

 

“Jensen,” Jared sighs, and Jensen’s stomach flips over at the way Jared’s lashes fan across his cheekbones. “I—You don’t have to do this. I don’t know…what you got out of what I told you but I’m doing okay. Really.” His voice drops to a low, amused and self-deprecating roll. “I’m not going to be hitting up any soup kitchens soon, alright?”

 

“Yeah, but you’re—things are still tight, though,” Jensen points out, lungs pinched against his ribcage, “Jared… The money’s good. I’m not talking buy a Rolex and a matching Maserati, but enough to indulge in some brand names.”

 

Jared laughs, but it’s not pleasantly. “Jesus, Jensen—”

 

“Maybe,” Jensen starts, painfully aware that he’s pushing it. “Maybe even spring for some dog food.”

 

For a split second Jensen is dead sure he’s gonna get a fist to the jaw for his trouble and nice view of Jared’s legs stepping over him on the way out the door. He’s not too sure he doesn’t deserve it.

 

Then he takes a breath. “Yeah?” Jared’s jaw sets when he tilts it up; Jensen’s heartbeat stalls out, and it has nothing to do with nerves. “What’s the catch?”

 

Jensen’s hand is on the back of his own neck before either one of them can blink. His clothes feel weird against his body, all this movement he’s not used to from so much time spent in skin tight fabric, and he feels a little bit like a superhero without his costume. “It’s, uh. In the industry.”

 

Jared’s whole face collapses, strength snapping out of his shoulders, and it catches them both by surprise how much he’d built up since walking in here. “Jensen, I _can’t._ I can’t do what you do, let people paw all over me. I just can’t.”

 

Jensen knew that—knows that—and tries not to let it sting while he holds up his hands. “No pawing, no touching, you won’t even lay eyes on a client, swear to god.”

 

“Really?” Jared asks, doubtful, and Jensen tries not to imagine how hard he’d balk at the idea of offering Jared a position like his. Definitely doesn’t think about why. Then it clicks in Jared’s head exactly what he’s talking about, what he’s proposing, and his eyes roll in exasperation, dust spinning under the sharp turn of his boots. “Are you serious? You want me to—”

 

“Do what you’re good at,” Jensen cuts off, each word deliberately meant to derail any thoughts of this _you want me_ business. “Come on, Jared. You can do it from wherever the hell you want, and swear to god, soon enough you’ll be able to do it in your sleep. Hell, while you’re studying. In the middle of a midterm, I will teach you how to get people off.”

 

That brings everything in the room not so much to a grinding halt than a spark flickering near a gas tank. Jensen swallows against a dry tongue and pastes on a politely hopeful look.

 

“Teach me?” Jared repeats, slow, like he heard wrong. “You’ll—what?”

 

“I show people the ropes, remember?” Jensen says, and it feels a little like what it was before last night, all the pieces just not quite slotted together. “When your shift gets done, if you’re interested.” His smile tastes as dusty and sweet as the amaretto-stained floors, but it’s a sight better than the leapfrogs in his stomach.

 

Jared looks…good. Tired, but…yeah. Better than when he came in. Probably still a bit of adrenaline in his blood after what happened on the floor, and all Jensen wants to do is—

 

“So we’re not gonna talk about it then?”

 

Jensen shifts his stance and instantly wishes he hadn’t forgotten about Jared’s bullshit meter. “Talk about what?”

 

Jared’s eyes are dark but not heated. “There’s a fifty in my tip jar.”

 

Jensen shrugs like he doesn’t know, easing sideways out of the room. “You serve a mean Cocksucking Cowboy.”

 

He’s only 90% sure the voice muttering, “Don’t have to tell me,” is in his head.

 

~*~

 

Jared’s not really going to do it. Really.

 

He doesn’t _have_ free time.

 

So he just focuses on keeping his head down the rest of the night, trying to ignore the way the girls set their drinks down too hard and bite the ends of their words off when they order.

 

The third time Danneel does it, though, he breaks his own rules and looks up.

 

“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” she says instantly, like she was waiting for it.

 

It takes a little doing, but he manages not to flinch. “I didn’t know Chad was coming,” he swears, each word deliberate, “I never even told him where I worked, and I’m sorry he said what he did but—”

 

“Yeah, and _that_ right there is the problem. Jared.” Her nails are long and red tonight, and for a moment he’s sure she’s going to sink them in the fleshy part of his arm. He still doesn’t move, and it takes a second to realize she’s waiting for him to make eye contact again. The paint around her eyes makes them look huge and alien, hard to decipher. “We’re used to the names and the secrets and the lies but not from each other, and _not_ where Jensen is concerned. You fuck with him again and I’ll make you wish Chris got to you first.”

 

“I didn’t—do anything to Jensen!” His mind rolls out a heat wave of contradictions, and he shoves them aside before his gut can clench. “Dan, I didn’t hurt him.”

 

“Oh, _bull_.” Whatever game face she had on slips, and in her annoyance she looks younger, his age, and then her next words knock all of that from his head. “I know he canceled all of his appointments today. He wouldn’t come out of his fucking room except for you. Now you’re gonna tell me you had nothing to do with that?”

 

Something must show on his face, but he has honestly no idea what could make her expression go blank like that. “Oh.”

 

“Oh, what? What oh?” He sounds like an idiot, he _knows_ he does.

 

“Nothing.” Her lips press in a tight smile, legs already sliding off the stool. “I’ll tell everyone to lay off.”

 

“Dan—”

 

“Hey,” she says, and her smile looks a little more genuine as she reaches out to pat his face, one deadly nail trailing under his chin. “Good luck.”

 

He wants to ask “With what?” and maybe throw in a “The hell?” but he also doesn’t want to sever his own jugular. And then Double-D’s mask slips on, and Dani’s left the building before she’s even on her feet.

 

Jared has no idea what she says, to who, or where, but all across the floor girls start to relax their smiles, until there’s this moment where the entire bar seems to let out a collective sigh of relief. The laughs get a little more real, drinks flow a little freer, and Jared notices it all with a detached sort of numbness.

 

What the hell did she mean, _Jensen canceled his appointments?_ Why the hell would he do that? Jared’s dead certain if he’d physically hurt Jensen last night he’d’ve more than heard about it, but he can’t think of another reason. It’s like the pope playing hooky—only not so blasphemous, Jesus Christ.

 

The planets (or endorphins) align to make this one of the nights where people leave their empties everywhere, and maybe the fact that the girls don’t bring them to Jared on their way by is their last act of retribution. Other nights Chris might’ve helped out, gathering glasses like he’s doing it for the hell of it rather than anyone in particular, but tonight he’s out of there the second their last customer stumbles out of the door, which is just about right. Jared doesn’t mind taking the punishment, kind of even likes the way the bar feels with all the people plucked from it.

 

There’s a woman murmuring things about rusted brandy in a diamond glass bleeding through the speakers, and it makes something hot curl low in his belly as the glasses turn in his hands. _Temptation…_ she sings, and his mind instantly shows him Jensen spread out on that bed, the way his mouth parted, the way his eyes burned even when they were muddled with what Jared was making him—

 

So he’s not…he’s not going to say yes. He’s just going to ask Jensen why.

 

It’s nearly an hour after his shift ends by the time Jared gets all the beer bottles chucked and the martini tumblers washed, and his hands are pruned when he knocks on Jensen’s door. Which doesn’t help at all with the nerves twisting in his belly.

 

It doesn’t really matter, though, if Jensen doesn’t open his door.

 

Jared’s half turned to leave when his ears pick up on a heavily muffled curse and then the door jerks open, and Jared’s heart just about stalls out.

 

"Hey," Jensen says, hair plastered to one side of his head with pillow lines along that cheek. Jared didn’t really get a chance in the walk-in to stare at how different his eyes were without eyeliner, and it shouldn’t be humanly possible for him to look that… _something_ with them sleep puffy and unguarded. "Thought you weren’t—what time is it?"

 

"I, uh." Jared’s right back where he was at the beginning of the week, stumbling and fumbling, but his cheeks aren’t burning quite as bad. Can’t really, he needs all the help he can get figuring out what the hell just happened. "I got off late."

 

"Better late than premature?" Jensen tries with a smile. It should be corny as hell, or maybe a little bitter, but Jensen’s not all the way awake and it just comes out...making his heart flip over.

 

"Hey, man," Jared says quickly, "We don’t have to—I mean, I’m _not,_ I didn’t come up here for that—"

 

Jensen just looks at him. "Uh-huh."

 

"I really didn’t."

 

"Look," Jensen sighs, "It’s not…that big a deal. And I did the math—" He makes a little self-conscious gesture over his shoulder where a laptop and a couple scattered bits of paper litter the satiny purple bed, and it _hits_ Jared—Right. Then.—just how _fucking_ _gone_ he is. He can’t even really hear Jensen finishing up, talking about the average cost of dog food and some low cost rentals if his current landlord doesn’t allow pets; He can’t hardly breathe.

 

"What?" Jensen asks when he’s done, uncomfortable frown tugging his lips.

 

"Nothing," Jared says on autopilot, dragging himself back. "I’m just—I really appreciate it. This. You really didn’t have to."

 

"My appointments canceled," Jensen waves away, and Jared’s stomach swoops with the certainty he’s lying. "I didn’t have anything else to do.

 

"So," Jensen adds a little awkwardly when Jared’s too focused on schooling his expression into something not ‘ha ha CAUGHT YOU’ to answer. "We doing this?"

 

"Yeah, okay," Jared’s voice comes from far away, but the nodding is all him.

 

Honestly. Phone sex. How hard can it be?

 

\---

 

Really fucking hard.

 

"So, uh, what are you wearing?"

 

"Jared, I will bet you ten billion dollars they’ll be the ones asking that question."

 

Jensen had stayed in the ‘entertainment suite’ because he said Jared needed to get comfortable doing this in a casual setting, but that also meant he’d _left Jared alone in his apartment_ and Jared’s kind of stupid with it. He’s sitting on the floor because he can’t bring himself to lie on Jensen’s _bed_ , and it’s honestly a lot less embarrassing to read every single title of the books and DVDs lining his shelves than pay attention to Jensen’s voice in his ear faking his way to an orgasm. He’s pretty sure that’s how this is going to go down, anyway.

 

"Okay, so ask me."

 

"What are you wearing?" Jensen drawls instantly, this low rumbling growl that makes Jared’s skin break out in goosebumps.

 

"Jesus."

 

"You’re wearing Jesus?" Jensen deadpans, then huffs out a breath. "Come on, Jared, it is not that hard."

 

"You aint kidding," Jared mutters, dragging a hand through his hair with a pointed glance at his lap. Not that Jensen can see, but he gets it anyway.

 

"You don’t actually have to get yourself off in phone sex, you know?"

 

"Hey, you have the Chronicles of Riddick box set!”

 

"Jared. _Focus._ Come on, Jay…" Jensen sounds one hundred percent sincere and desperate and kind of pleading, and suddenly it’s not such a problem anymore. "Just." He can _feel_ Jensen’s eyes close, but he knows he has to be imagining the hitch in his breath. "Talk to me. Pretend I’m some random guy at the bar. What would you say?"

 

Jared gulps and just barely manages to get out, "Guys or girls?"

 

"Guys." Jensen’s smiling, indulgent. "Talking to you, aren’t I?"

 

Yeah, he is. "And, uh…" Jared slides a little lower, foot of the bed digging into his back. "What do you like?"

 

He’s not imagining the pause. But there are plenty of explanations for it. "I like…tall guys. Broad shoulders. Floppy hair. Dimples."

 

"Okay, now who’s not taking this seriously?" Jared’s belly feels hot, tight, and it’s nothing compared to whatever’s going on in his chest.

 

"Sorry," Jensen apologizes with a rumbling laugh that does nothing to appease that. "I like…"

 

"Tell me," Jared growls, and any humor left in the air snaps. That was the voice he used when Jensen—during. Just during.

 

Nothing. Jared’s throat and lungs burn with lack of air, but he just can’t. There’s no way Jensen will answer.

 

"I like knowing what people want." Jensen’s voice is so low it’s almost hoarse, a little bit broken, and Jared knows it’s true. "I like…being able to give it to them. Fuck," he adds in a whisper, then shoves onward, almost angry. "I like bending over for tops and bending over the bottoms, I like people who know what they want and people who just can’t admit it. Like showing them what I’m good at, like letting them show me."

 

 _Just want to be useful. Want to be needed._

 

Jared lets out a shaky breath, his own hand feeling like a branding iron on his thigh. "What gets you off, Jen?" he asks, murmurs, because Jensen doesn’t even probably realize he’s not answering the question. "Sure-fire, bullet-proof, turns you on until you can’t hardly stand it, doesn’t matter who’s touching you."

 

"Rimming," Jensen responds after a split second hesitation, somehow sure and vulnerable at the same time. "And when a guy tells me what he’s gonna do, how he’s gonna do it, gets me hot all over. Jared?"

 

He jumps a little at the prompt, tries not to think about other parts of his anatomy jumping too. Squeezes his eyes shut, just puts a hand on himself to quiet his dick. "You like…them licking you? Holding you open, holding you down?"

 

And then Jensen _moans_.

 

"Jesus Christ, Jen," Jared breathes, almost a whine, words spilling out of his mouth before he knows what they are. "You got a hand on yourself?”

 

Of course he doesn’t. This is pretend, practice. Jensen’s just…really fucking good and maybe Jared’s lie detector’s getting thrown by phone distortion.

 

"Fuck. Fuck, yeah, I do."

 

Holy _shit_ , it isn’t. Maybe Jensen would’ve been able to pull this off—lying that he isn’t really doing what he’s saying he is—but Jared’s heard him when it’s real.

 

Jared bites his lip hard enough to bruise before he remembers he’s supposed to keep talking. "Never got to see you jack off," and okay, that’s not exactly as non-specific as they were keeping it before, but Jared can’t fucking help it. "Bet you’ve got it down to an art, fingers hitting all the spots that make your legs shake. Bet you could get yourself off in under a minute if you wanted."

 

"Now," Jensen says, lets out a shuddering breath that ties a thousand knots in Jared’s gut. "Tell…Tell me what you’d do if you were here."

 

It’s supposed to put him back in the moment, remind him that this isn’t real, and all it really does is piss Jared off. "I’d flip you." His voice comes out guttural, hard. "Push your legs wider but you’d spread for me anyway, wouldn’t you?"

 

Jensen breathes out like he’s been hit, and Jared knows he’s going to try and stop this before the words get out. "Fuck, okay—"

 

"I’ve never rimmed anyone before." Jared lets the words drag, nails digging deep into his thighs. He wants to jerk off, can’t remember a time when he wanted to more, but that’s not the game. "Bet it’s not too different from eating out a girl, though."

 

Jensen sucks in a lungful of air on the tail end of a sound that makes Jared throb.

 

"So I’d start like that. Lick you from just under your balls then curl the tip of my tongue into your hole."

 

"Jared—"

 

"And you’d just keep—bucking up into it, into my tongue." Jared’s breathing too hard, has to pinch the bridge of his nose and hunch a little, trying to get back some control. "Have to hold you down, Jen. Put a hand on the small of your back and pin your hips to the bed, make you fuck against those satin sheets as much as you could move."

 

"Oh yeah, baby, give it to me." Jensen grits out the blatant line through his teeth, and okay, so he’s caught on. Jared rides out a shudder, clenches his jaw so hard it hurts.

 

"Not going to give you what you want." His voice is so deep it feels like it’s tearing at his throat. "Because it’s me you want, right? You want my cock fucking into you again, want me to use you."

 

There’s that cry again, like he’s been belly-shot. " _Jared—"_

 

"Could you feel me the next day? That why you canceled your appointments, because you could still feel me balls deep in your ass?"

 

"Fuck you," Jensen gasps out, and that’s the last fucking straw.

 

"If you aren’t touching yourself yet you better get a fucking hand on that cock, Jensen."

 

Jensen makes this choked off broken little noise, then plows over all of that before the thrill finishes racing through Jared system with, "Okay, you’ve got it, I’ll put in a word with Sam," and he hangs up.

 

Jared’s on his feet before his cock can remind him that blood flow is being directed elsewhere, so he nearly falls a couple times but he makes it to the door before Jensen’s up off the bed. Barely, since he’s got one leg on the floor. His shirt’s rucked up and his jeans are slung low and unbuttoned but zipped, and he’s got mean, want, and skittish warring for dominance across his features. Jared can’t help what comes out of his mouth.

 

"You want to grab dinner sometime?"

 

Oh. Shit.

 

" _What_?" Jensen hisses like the air’s been punched out of him. "What the—" He cuts himself so fast it has to hurt. Pale. And there’s no makeup to help hide his emotions, which just makes it that much worse.

 

"I’m sorry, that came out— You probably get—"

 

"Yeah," Jensen jumps in, "I really—do." He sounds like he’s choking on whatever expletives want to come out, and Jared doesn’t have a clue why he’s not saying them.

 

"But I mean it," Jared says, taking another step towards the bed. "I know you’re going to tell me this is all a by-product of some sexual identity crisis, but I don’t know if you’ve noticed that I’m kind of good at sensing bullshit."

 

Jensen’s mouth opens, and then shuts. Jared’s stomach drops to the bottom of his shoes.

 

"I know I can’t really…afford you—"

 

"So this is your way of getting free professional sex."

 

Jared huffs, dropping his head with a little smile because he should have seen that one coming.

 

"Fuck you." Jensen’s off the bed and in his face before Jared realizes he’s moving. Just as fast he’s shoving Jared out of the way, making tacks for his room. "Just because you got me off _once_ —Orgasms don’t mean shit, Jared!” When Jensen turns to round on him he’s definitely not expecting Jared so close on his heels, almost crashes right into him. "Jesus fuck, _back off_."

 

"Jensen." Jared wants really badly to grab him by the shoulders and shake, but he also kind of needs his fingers unbroken. "I didn’t mean— I meant, the dates might have to be a little low key. At first. I meant I’m not the type of guy you usually go out with."

 

Jensen tugs in a breath. Then, "If I wanted a fucking sugar daddy I could have one," and he just looks…young.

 

"Dude," Jared says like he’s kinda dumb instead, "I know. I don’t want to be your sugar daddy, and not just because I can’t afford it."

 

"This is so stupid," Jensen spits out under his breath. "Okay, man, you know how when you eat chocolate or you jerk off and all these happy endorphins—"

 

"Seriously, Jensen, what’s the worst that could happen?" In all honesty he’s not too sure he wants to hear the answer, so before Jensen can do more than open his mouth he’s right there, in Jensen’s space, still a little hard in his jeans because it’s kind of impossible to be around Jensen Ackles and not pop wood. "I want…to spend time with you," he says, trying desperately to convey how much he meant it the first time, before they even fell into bed. "And I think…I think you’d like that too."

 

He has no fucking clue what Jensen thinks.

 

Especially when he takes a step back. "Jared… The whole suddenly gay issue aside—"

 

"Bi," Jared corrects with whatever cheek he can muster on short notice.

 

"Okay, whatever. In the hypothetical crazy ‘verse where I say yes and…date you," he forces out with a wide-eyed hand gesture, "what happens the first time I’m back on the floor? What happens when I take a guy upstairs, or even a girl? You’re telling me that’s gonna sit just fine with you.”

 

Jared’s stomach flip flops and his face goes a little warm, but his voice is nice and even when he answers. "Been doing okay so far."

 

Jensen jerks back another step, hand shooting out between them. "What the hell was that?"

 

"What?"

 

"Don’t even. I know arousal the way you know bullshit so what _was_ that?" Jensen’s just gaping at him and Jared has no idea what to say. "You… What, you get off on knowing I’m with other people?"

 

"No! Of course I…" Jared is trying to imagine a time when he’d felt more embarrassed about anything, and it’s a little bit frightening when even his first meeting with Jensen doesn’t compete. "I get…" His eyes squeeze shut, open with a wave of his eyebrows and his gaze somewhere else. "Uh, _aroused_ as you say, um. Actually, when you. When you come back…downstairs." _Cringe_.

 

He knows Jensen’s still staring at him like he’s grown another head. But he’s pretty sure neither of them saw what Jensen says next coming: "You a sloppy seconds guy, Jay?"

 

Okay, so it’s not what he says, but how he says it. Jared’s not too dumb about detecting arousal himself, and that low timbre is just about halfway to hitting the voice Jensen uses on marks.

 

"Uh," Jared says intelligently, "…maybe?"

 

Jensen stares. Blatantly. "…That’s a little fucked up. For you. I’ve had clients with that kink, and honestly you don’t—"

 

"It’s not an _actual_ sloppy seconds kink!” It isn’t. Really. And he has no clue how he’s going to convince Jensen of that. "It’s…It’s just you. It’s those endorphins you were talking about, and you always come down those stairs looking…happy. I like seeing you happy and sex makes you happy so obvious conclusion: I’m not going to disapprove of your day job. Hell, with this phone sex thing, it’ll kind of be my day job too."

 

Jensen runs a hand halfway through his hair and tugs, dropping his gaze, and Jared knows that’s bad.

 

"Hey, you don’t have to—say yes or anything right now." He is so stalling the inevitable, and feeling kind of like a girl while he does it. "Just, uh," he adds with what he hopes is a masculine cough, "think about it and get back to me?"

 

Jared’s out the door before Jensen says anything, and the sad part is he took his time leaving.

 

~*~

 

"What. The. Hell."

 

It took him just over a week to spill his guts to Chris, and 90% of that was because he’s been kind of zombie walking through his appointments. Zombie fucking? Okay, no, that sounds wrong.

 

"I know. I _know,_ " Jensen groans into the table top, one hand inching for Kane’s alcohol so he doesn’t have to go up to the bar to get it.

 

And Jared’s been good. Jared’s been smiling. Jared’s been easy and flirty and fun and did he mention the flirting? Who the hell decided teaching Jared to work a phone sex line was a good idea? It’s like that red stuff they give the guy with big lips on TV that turns him into an evil superhero instead of just a gay one.

 

It’s only lately that Jared’s smiles have gotten a little dimmer. Jensen kind of hates that he knows and misses how bright Jared’s smiles can be.

 

"Jenny, get your paws off my beer." Chris sounds like his mama, and Jensen grumbles something to the effect. "Jen, if your mama knew what you were doing she’d take that big ol’ ladle off the top shelf and beat you upside the head."

 

"She already knows I’m a hooker," Jensen points out on a sigh, pushing his forehead deeper into the table then banging it a couple times to see if it’ll go through. Jensen’s mama is one of those crazy forces of nature who somehow found it in her big heart to accept what he was doing with the same grace she showed when she caught him kissing the neighbor boy down the block when he was thirteen (both he and the boy, Jensen’s never been a pedophile). She still worries, and always sends him home with boxes of condoms at Christmastime even though he’s told her a million times that Enthrall ‘Em Bunny’n’Steer Ranch provides contraceptives for free.

 

"That’s not what I was talkin’ about." Chris clips Jensen’s grasping fingers with his bottle. "Get your own damn beer. And while you’re at it, suck it the fuck up—and yeah, I mean it like that—and talk to your boy."

 

"He’s not—" Jensen grits his teeth and lifts his head. "You want me to get him fired for bunny fucking?"

 

"Oh for—I saw you at his indoctrination so quit spittin’ shit." 

 

So maybe Sam had made Jared an official bun— _steer_ now that he was working the phones. It was standard protocol, but it sure didn’t help that rumors said Jared was already in the top five pay slot. Jensen only went because Danneel threatened to castrate him if he didn’t, but he didn’t stay long and he didn’t congratulate Jared because Jensen is an _asshole_.

 

…He kind of understands why his mama should take a ladle to him.

 

Kane grabs him by the chin and holds his gaze, rough voice dropping into something almost gentle. "You ever heard of the expression, ‘shit or get off the pot?’"

 

"I hate that expression."

 

"Yeah, well." Chris makes Jensen’s head turn towards Jared, who’s rubbing down a handful of beer glasses during the lull. It’s not even erotic, just…makes Jensen feel like he’s been soaking for hours in the ranch’s company hot tub.

 

Chris’s steel-toed boot connecting with his calf snaps him out of it, and when he jerks his kneecaps hit the table so hard it jumps and throws his drink into the air. " _OwmothersonofafuckingBITCH_ , Kane!"

 

"Shit," Chris hisses, hands soaked where he went to grab the bottle, then he fixes Jensen with a glare Jensen hasn’t seen since that big guy from Detroit tried to rough up Sandy. "What the hell are you scared of, Jensen?"

 

"Besides the fact that you might’ve cracked my femur?" Jensen spits though his teeth, trying to ignore the flip flop in his chest at hearing him use his whole name. Honestly, Jensen wasn’t too turn Chris _knew_ his full name.

 

Chris stares at him a split second and then he’s on his feet, cuffing Jensen upside the head again and again until he tumbles out of his seat onto the floor, yelping as Chris snarls, "Get out of my booth and go to your boy!”

 

"Fuck off," Jensen mutters as he scrambles to his feet. He’s lucky Misha’s latest mark just paid him to make out with Mike on the pole-dancing stage, or people would’ve been a lot more interested in their corner of the bar. "He’s not—"

 

"And get me another fucking beer!”

 

When Jensen’s eyes stop rolling they somehow land on Jared, who’s sending a cautious smile and a not-entirely-serious peace sign their way. Or his way, as Chris has already thrown himself back in his seat. Jared has his head down when Jensen looks back, and…okay, yeah, his chest hurts when he sees how fast that smile is gone and he’s kind of…maybe Jensen’s found he enjoys his appointments more when he can picture someone tall with dimples and floppy hair—

 

Oh for fucks sake.

 

"Hi!” he blurts the instant he’s within speaking distance of the bar, and Jared’s head snaps up and lights up and then fits into something trying not to be wary and resigned.

 

"Hey," he says anyway with half a smile. "How are things? Haven’t talked to you for a while."

 

"Yeah…sorry." Jensen can’t help an embarrassed wince. "Things are…good?"

 

"You sure about that?" Jared laughs, but he doesn’t mean it. There’s a look in his eyes Jensen’s seen before—hell, even on his own face. That sure-as-hell-know-I’m-gonna-get-dumped.

 

Jensen’s throat works once before he talks. "How’s the phone sex gig working out for you?"

 

"Uh, great, actually," Jared says, sounding surprised, maybe that Jensen asked. "I’m headed out to San Antonio on Tuesday to get my kids. My dogs," he adds quickly, before Jensen’s eyes can widen too far.

 

"That’s awesome." Jensen gulps again, but there is really nothing in his mouth worth swallowing. Not like that. "So, uh…San Antonio, huh? I’m from Richardson."

 

"Okay, seriously Jensen," Jared snaps, but it doesn’t come out sounding angry. The ache in Jensen’s chest gives a painful throb. "Can we just… Can you just tell me you’re not interested so that maybe I can get started on getting over you any time soon?"

 

Jensen’s eyes drop to the counter, throat contracting a couple more times as he watches his thumbnail try to dig into the varnish. His voice comes out small. "Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?"

 

Even without eyes on him Jensen knows when Jared’s spine stiffens, knows that he is walking a very fine line that could very well get him punched.

 

"Sure." Now Jared’s mad, each word bitten off. "What can I get you?"

 

"I’d like a Negra Modelo but I’d—" Jensen catches Jared’s wrist when he turns to leave, but he can’t make himself raise his head. "I’d really like to have it…after your shift is done."

 

Jared goes still under his hand.

 

"And it doesn’t have to be here," Jensen adds in case he wasn’t clear enough. "And I’d kind of like to drink it with you. If you’re free."

 

Nothing. Jensen drags in a deep breath and lifts his gaze. Not that it does much good; Jared’s face is completely blank. Jensen’s heartbeat is jack-rabbit-ing in his chest, too fast to be healthy, and he doesn’t know how he got from Chris’s table to here wanting this so bad. That’s not even it, if he’s being honest, just _letting_ himself want Jared this much.

 

"Can I." Jared’s mouth shuts abruptly, and then he’s tugging his hand away, tilting his head towards the storage room. "Talk to you for a second? Our usual conference room?"

 

Jensen’s nerves are strung so tight he can barely slide off his stool without tumbling, but Jared doesn’t wait to see him nod, doesn’t even really look back. Jensen makes himself follow with his heart in his throat, probably exactly how Jared’s been feeling this whole week.

 

When his back slams against the door he tells himself he deserves it, braces for a punch, and jumps hard when Jared’s mouth comes down on his instead.

 

It’s not a fast kiss, desperate or needy, for all that Jared’s pressed against him from his bruised kneecaps to his thudding heart. It’s slow, almost languid, almost deliberate and careful, but also warm and good and fuck, Jensen didn’t realize how much he missed just _touching_ Jared, breathing him in. He’s too full, god, he’s going to fly apart.

 

"You realize this is fucked up," Jensen says the instant he pulls back, but he can’t stop touching Jared, too afraid to ease up on the grip he’s got on Jared’s sides to stroke the hair out of his eyes and trace the line of his jaw like he wants to. "Like, _really_ fucked up. Like Julia-Roberts-convinced-Richard-Gere-to-give-up-his-millions-and-join-her-turning-tricks kind of fucked up."

 

Jared’s laugh is low and warm and more like a hum that vibrates through them both. "Only I don’t have any millions to give up. And you don’t have Julia Robert’s teeth."

 

"At least you’re not prematurely grey," Jensen admits when he can, giving Jared’s hair a tug. But then Jared turns his head and plants a quick kiss on the inside of his wrist, and the ability to speak is gone again.

 

"I think we’re gonna be okay," Jared whispers a little hopefully, almost like a question.

 

"Yeah?" Jensen kind of wants to kiss him, and it’s a little mind bending to realize he _can._

 

"Yeah," Jared says, smiling against his mouth. "Yeah, we are."

 

Jared tastes like butterscotch and baileys.

  
THE END


End file.
